D  I  >>  U 


/rom  the 
persona?  library 
o/ 

SUSANNA  BRYANT  DAKIN 

presented  in  her  memory  to 
the  university  library 
university  of  California 
santa  cruz 
by 

HENRY  SALTONSTALL  DAKIN 
MARY  DAKIN  SADGOPAL 
SUSANNA  DAKIN  ARP 

1969 


STEWART  KIDD 

DRAMATIC   PUBLICATIONS 


THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  THE  THEATER Anonymous  $1.25 

EUROPEAN  THEORIES  OF  THE  DRAMA  Barrett  H.  Clark    5.00 

CoNTEMPORARYpRENCH DRAMATISTS  Barrett  H.  Clark  2.50 

FOUR  PLAYS  OF  THE  FREE  THEATER  . .  Barrett  H.  Clark  2.50 
THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

Geo.  Cram  Cook  &  Frank  Shay,  Editors  2.50 

THE  Two  CROM WELLS Liddell  DeLesseline  1.50 

PLAYS  AND  PLAYERS Walter  Prichard  Eaton  3.00 

THE  ANTIGONE  OF  SOPHOCLES 

Prof.  Jos.  Edward  Harry  1.25 

THE  CHANGING  DRAMA Archibald  Henderson  2.50 

EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS' Archibald  Henderson  3.00 

GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW:  His  LIFE  AND  WORKS 

Archibald  Henderson  7.50 
FIFTY  CONTEMPORARY  ONE  ACT  PLAYS 

Compiled  by  Pierre  Loving  &  Frank  Shay  5.00 

SHORT  PLAYS - Mary  MacMittan  2.50 

MORE  SHORT  PLAYS Mary  MacMillan  2.50 

THE  GIFT Margaret  Douglas  Rogers  1.00 

COMEDIES  OF  WORDS  AND  OTHER  PLAYS 

Arthur  Schnitzler,  Translated  by  Pierre  Loving  2.50 

LUCKY  PEHR August  Strindberg  2.50 

Translated  by  Velma  Swanston  Howard 

EASTER August  Strindberg  2.50 

Translated  by  Velma  Swanston  Howard 

THE  HAMLET  PROBLEM  AND  ITS  SOLUTION 

Emerson  V enable  1.50 

PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS Stuart  Walker,  net  2.50 

MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS  ....  Stuart  Walker,  net  2.50 

PORTMANTEAU  ADAPTATIONS.  . .  .Stuart  Walker,  net  2.50 

Stewart  Kidd  Modern  Plays 

MANSIONS Hildegarde  Planner  .50 

THE  SHEPHERD  IN  THE  DISTANCE.  .Holland Hudson  .50 

HEARTS  TO  MEND H.  A.  Overstreet  .50 

SHAM Frank  G.  Tompkins  ..50 

Six  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE  LENTILS  BOIL 

Stuart  Walker  .50 

Others  to  Follow 


THE 

PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


EDITED  AND  SELECTED  BY 

GEORGE  CRAM  COOK 

and 

FRANK  SHAY 


WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY 

HUTCHINS  HAPGOOD 


CINCINNATI 
STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1921 
STEWART  &  KIDD  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 
COPYRIGHT  IN  ENGLAND 


INTRODUCTION 

As  these  little  plays  go  to  press,  the  news  comes 
of  the  death  of  John  Reed,  of  the  original  group 
who  formed  the  Players  seven  or  eight  summers 
ago  at  Provincetown. 

Reed  was  a  pure  spirit,  held  completely  by 
what  his  imagination  saw.  He  acted  without  re 
serve  and  had  no  prudence.  His  life  was  deter 
mined  by  real  values.  Witl>  a  gay  smile  he  gave 
himself  to  what  he  saw  as  beautiful,  no  matter 
where  it  might  lead — to  ostracism,  to  prison,  to 
death.  He  did  not  express  himself  solemnly,  but 
he  lived  a  life  of  passionate  devotion  to  the  best, 
as  he  saw  it. 

Reed  joins  in  death  several  others  of  the  Play 
ers  who  went  before ;  all,  but  one,  young,  like  him ; 
all,  like  him,  devoted,  and  careless  of  the  world, 
careful  of  the  spirit — so  reckless  and  unafraid. 
"Hutch"  Collins,  who  challenged  life  at  every 
moment;  Pendleton  King;  Fenimore  Merrill; 
Nani  Bailey,  who  loved  all  but  herself;  Alice  Mac- 
dougall,  and  the  beautiful  Mary  Pyne,  who 
quietly  understood  all  that  youth  and  age  know, 
and  Mrs.  E.  E.  Cook,  the  oldest  member  of  the 
Players,  but  young  in  spirit. 

Youth  and  death  are  close  companions.  United, 
they  are  of  the  eternal.  As  age  comes,  youth  and 
death  are  separated.  Only  while  they  are  united 
is  art  there.  Those  who  were  close  to  the  Prov 
incetown  Players  know  how  youth  was  there;  and 

5 


INTRODUCTION 


now  we  see  better  how  death  was  imminent  to  the 
necessary  carelessness  of  pure  living  and  doing. 

In  the  plays  contained  in  this  volume,  and  in 
others  not  published  or  published  in  previous  col 
lections,  there  are  touches  that,  to  those  of  us 
who  can  supply  from  our  memories,  reveal  the 
spirit  of  the  Players.  This  is  the  best  that  art 
can  do.  To  all  art  we  must  bring  something  not 
contained  in  it,  to  see  it  as  art.  We  must  see  the 
unattained  youthful  effort.  If  there  is  a  glimpse 
of  that,  it  is  all  we  can  hope  for  in  an  unrealized 
world.  These  ten  are  not  the  best  plays  ever 
written;  but  they  are  written  in  a  pure  spirit;  they 
sprang  from  an  attempt  made  by  a  group  of  men 
and  women  to  express  something  sincerely,  with 
no  regard  for  fame,  money,  or  power-— and  what 
ever  they  have  of  value  is  due  to  that. 

If  the  Provincetown  Players  had  not  been 
formed,  in  unusual  degree,  with  the  purity  of 
youth  and  effort,  so  many  of  them  would  not,  in 
all  likelihood,  in  this  brief  time  have  died.  It 
was  not  an  accident.  They  gave  themselves  un 
reservedly  to  life,  and  it  was  eternity,  rather  than 
death,  that  took  them. 

Among  those  of  the  Players  who  remain  there 
are  some  who  remain  unwillingly.  Whom  the 
gods  love  die  young,  and  if  some  of  those  who 
remain  are  loved  of  the  gods,  it  is  because  they 
are  already  living  beyond  in  spirit,  and  are  held 
here  for  the  purpose  of  fulfilling  some  mundane 
obligation.  HUTCHINS  HAPGOOD. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Grateful  acknowledgment  for  permission  to  include 
plays  in  this  volume  is  made  to  the  following  authors 
and  publishers: 

To  Alice  Rostetter,  Susan  Glaspell,  Neith  Boyce, 
Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  Rita  Wellman,  the  late 
Pendleton  King,  James  Oppenheim,  Floyd  Dell,  Wil 
bur  Daniel  Steele,  Eugene  G.  O'Neill,  George  Cram 
Cook,  and  Hutchins  Hapgood. 

To  Egmont  Arens,  for  The  Widows  Veil,  The  Angel 
Intrudes,  and  Night.  Copies  of  the  acting  editions  of 
these  plays  may  be  had  from  Mr.  Arens. 

To  Boni  &  Liveright,  Inc.,  from  Bound  East  For 
Cardiff. 

To  Small,  Maynard  &  Company,  for  Suppressed 
Desires.  F.  S. 

NOTE 

The  plays  in  this  volume  are  fully  protected  by  the 
copyright  law,  all  requirements  of  which  have  been 
complied  with.  No  performance,  either  professional 
or  amateur,  may  be  given  without  the  written  per 
mission  of  the  respective  authors  or  their  representa 
tives,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  of  the  Province- 
town  Players,  133  Macdougal  Street,  New  York  City. 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION,     -  5 

SUPPRESSED   DESIRES,   A   COMEDY.      By   George 
Cram  Cook  and  Susan  Glaspell,  9 

ARIA  DA  CAPO,  A  FANTASY.     By  Edna  St.  Vin 
cent  Millay,  45 

COCAINE,  A  PLAY.     By  Pendleton  King,  -  71 

NIGHT,  A  PLAY.     By  James  Oppenheim,       -  95 

ENEMIES,  A  PLAY.     By  Neith  Boyce  and  Hutch- 
ins  Hapgood,  117 

THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES,  A   COMEDY.      By  Floyd 
Dell,  -  137 

BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF,  A  PLAY.     By  Eugene 
G.  O'Neill,  -  157 

THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL,  A  COMEDY.      By  Alice  Ros- 
tetter,  -  181 

THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN,  A  PLAY.     By  Rita 
Wellman,  207 

NOT    SMART,    A     FARCE.       By    Wilbur    Daniel 
Steele,       -----  -        -  241 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

A  COMEDY  IN  TWO  SCENES 
BY  GEORGE  CRAM  COOK  AND  SUSAN  GLASPELL 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

Att  Rights  Reserved 


A  period  of  two  weeks  is  supposed  to  elapse  be 
tween  the  first  and  second  scenes. 

PERSONS 

HENRIETTA  BREWSTER 
STEPHEN  BREWSTER 
MABEL 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 

SCENE  I 

A  studio  apartment  in  an  upper  story,  Washing 
ton  Square  South.  Through  an  immense  north 
window  in  the  back  wall  appear  tree  tops  and 
the  upper  part  of  the  Washington  Arch.  Be 
yond  it  you  look  up  Fifth  Avenue.  Near  the 
window  is  a  big  table f  loaded  at  one  end  with 
serious-looking  books  and  austere  scientific 
periodicals.  At  the  other  end  are  architect's 
drawings,  blue  prints,  dividing  compasses, 
square,  ruler,  etc.  At  the  left  is  a  door  leading 
to  the  rest  of  the  apartment;  at  the  right  the 
outer  door.  A  breakfast  table  is  set  for  three, 
but  only  two  are  seated  at  it — Henrietta  and 
Stephen  Brewster.  As  the  curtains  withdraw 
Steve  pushes  back  his  coffee  cup  and  sits  de 
jected. 

HENRIETTA 

It  isn't  the  coffee,  Steve,  dear.    There's  nothing 
the  matter  with  the  coffee.    There's  something 
the  matter  with  you. 
STEVE  (doggedly) 

There  may  be  something  the  matter  with  my 
stomach. 

ii 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

HENRIETTA  (scornfully) 

Your  stomach!     The  trouble  is  not  with  your 

stomach,  but  in  your  subconscious  mind. 
STEVE 

Subconscious  piffle.    (Takes  morning  paper  and 

tries  to  read.) 
HENRIETTA 

Steve,  you  never  used  to  be  so  disagreeable. 

You  certainly  have  got  some  sort  of  a  complex. 

You're  all  inhibited.     You're  no  longer  open 

to  new  ideas.    You  won't  listen  to  a  word  about 

psychoanalysis. 

STEVE 

A  word!     I've  listened  to  volumes! 

HENRIETTA 

You've  ceased  to  be  creative  in  architecture — 
your  work  isn't  going  well.  You're  not  sleep 
ing  well — 

STEVE 

How  can  I  sleep,  Henrietta,  when  you're  al 
ways  waking  me  up  in  the  night  to  find  out  what 
I'm  dreaming? 

HENRIETTA 

But  dreams  are  so  important,  Steve.     If  you'd 

tell  yours  to  Dr.  Russell,  he'd  find  out  exactly 

what's  wrong  with  you. 
STEVE 

There's  nothing  wrong  with  me. 
HENRIETTA 

You  don't  even  talk  as  well  as  you  used  to. 
STEVE 

Talk?    I  can't  say  a  thing  without  you  looking 
12 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


at  me  in  that  dark  fashion  you  have  when  you're 
on  the  trail  of  a  complex. 

HENRIETTA 

This  very  irritability  indicates  that  you're  suf 
fering  from  some  suppressed  desire. 

STEVE 

I'm  suffering  from  a  suppressed  desire  for  a 
little  peace. 

HENRIETTA 

Dr.  Russell  is  doing  simply  wonderful  things 

with  nervous  cases.     Won't  you  go  to   him, 

Steve? 
STEVE  (slamming  down  his  newspaper) 

No,  Henrietta,  I  won't ! 

HENRIETTA 

But,  Stephen! — 

STEVE 

Tst!  I  hear  Mabel  coming.  Let's  not  be  at 
each  other's  throats  the  first  day  of  her  visit. 
(He  takes  out  cigarets.  Mabel  comes  in  from 
door  left,  the  side  opposite  Steve,  so  that  he  is 
facing  her.  She  is  wearing  a  rather  fussy  neg 
ligee  in  contrast  to  Henrietta,  who  wears  "rad 
ical"  clothes.  Mabel  is  what  is  called  plump.) 
MABEL 

Good-morning ! 

HENRIETTA 

Oh,  here  you  are,  little  sister! 
STEVE 

Good-morning,  Mabel !     (Mabel  nods  to  him 

and  turns,  her  face  lighting  up,  to  Henrietta.) 
HENRIETTA 

(giving  Mabel  a  hug  as  she  leans  against  her) 

13 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

It's  so  good  to  have  you  here.  I  was  going  to 
let  you  sleep,  thinking  you'd  be  tired  after  the 
long  trip.  Sit  down.  There'll  be  fresh  toast 
in  a  minute  and  (rising)  will  you  have — 

MABEL 

Oh,  I  ought  to  have  told  you  Henrietta.  Don't 
get  anything  for  me.  I'm  not  eating  breakfast. 

HENRIETTA  (at  first  in  mere  surprise) 

Not  eating  breakfast?  (She  sits  down,  then 
leans  toward  Mabel,  who  is  seated  now,  and 
scrutinizes  her.) 

STEVE  (half  to  himself) 
The  psychoanalytical  look! 

HENRIETTA 

Mabel,  why  are  you  not  eating  breakfast? 
MABEL  (a  little  startled) 

Why,  no  particular  reason.  I  just  don't  care 
much  for  breakfast,  and  they  say  it  keeps  down 
(a  hand  on  her  hip — the  gesture  of  one  who  is 
"reducing" )  that  is,  it's  a  good  thing  to  go 
without  it. 

HENRIETTA 

Don't  you  sleep  well  ?  Did  you  sleep  well  last 
night? 

MABEL 

Oh,  yes,  I  slept  all  right.  Yes,  I  slept  fine  last 
night,  only  (laughing)  I  did  have  the  funniest 
dream ! 

STEVE 

S-h!  S-t! 
HENRIETTA  (moving  closer) 

And  what  did  you  dream,  Mabel? 
14 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


STEVE 

Look-a-here,  Mabel,  I  feel  it's  my  duty  to  put 
you  on.  Don't  tell  Henrietta  your  dreams.  If 
you  do,  she'll  find  out  that  you  have  an  under 
ground  desire  to  kill  your  father  and  marry 
your  mother — 

HENRIETTA 

Don't  be  absurd,  Stephen  Brewster !     (Sweetly 
to  Mabel)     What  was  your  dream,  dear? 
MABEL  (laughing) 

Well,  I  dreamed  I  was  a  hen. 

HENRIETTA 

A  hen? 

MABEL 

Yes ;  and  I  was  pushing  along  through  a  crowd 
as  fast  as  I  could,  but  being  a  hen  I  couldn't 
walk  very  fast — it  was  like  having  a  tight  skirt, 
you  know;  and  there  was  some  sort  of  creature 
in  a  blue  cap — you  know  how  mixed  up  dreams 
are — and  it  kept  shouting  after  me,  "Step,  hen ! 
Step,  hen!"  until  I  got  all  excited  and  just 
couldn't  move  at  all. 

HENRIETTA 

(resting  chin  in  palm  and  peering)     You  say 

you  became  much  excited? 
MABEL  (laughing) 

Oh,  yes;  I  was  in  a  terrible  state. 
HENRIETTA 

(leaning  back,  murmurs)    This  is  significant. 

STEVE 

She  dreams  she's  a  hen.  She  is  told  to  step 
lively.  She  becomes  violently  agitated.  What 
can  it  mean? 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

HENRIETTA 

(turning  impatiently  from   him)      Mabel,   do 

you  know  anything  about  psychoanalysis  ? 
MABEL  (feebly) 

Oh — not  much.     No — I — (brightening)     It's 

something  about  the  war  isn't  it? 
STEVE 

Not  that  kind  of  war. 

MABEL  (abashed) 

I  thought  it  might  be  the  name  of  a  new  ex 
plosive. 

STEVE 
It  is. 

MABEL 

(apologetically  to  Henrietta,  who  is  frowning) 
You  see,  Henrietta,  I — we  do  not  live  in  touch 
with  intellectual  things,  as  you  do.  Bob  being 
a  dentist — somehow  our  friends — 

STEVE  (softly) 

Oh,  to  be  a  dentist !  (Goes  to  window  and 
stands  looking  out.) 

HENRIETTA 

Don't  you  ever  see  anything  more  of  that  edi 
torial  writer — what  was  his  name? 
MABEL 

Lyman  Eggleston? 

HENRIETTA 

Yes,  Eggleston.  He  was  in  touch  with  things. 
Don't  you  see  him? 

MABEL 

Yes,  I  see  him  once  in  a  while.  Bob  doesn't 
like  him  very  well. 

16 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


HENRIETTA 

Your  husband  does  not  like  Lyman  Eggleston  ? 

(mysteriously)       Mabel,     are    you    perfectly 

happy  with  your  husband? 
STEVE  (sharply) 

Oh,  come  now,  Henrietta — that's  going  a  little 

strong  I 
HENRIETTA 

Are   you  perfectly  happy  with   him,    Mabel? 

(Steve  goes  to  work-table.) 
MABEL 

Why — yes — I   guess   so.      Why — of  course   I 

am! 
HENRIETTA 

Are  you  happy?     Or  do  you  only  think  you 
are?     Or  do  you  only  think  you  ought  to  be? 
MABEL 

Why,  Henrietta,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean ! 

STEVE 

(seizes  stack  of  books  and  magazines  and 
dumps  them  on  the  breakfast  table)  This  is 
what  she  means,  Mabel.  Psychoanalysis.  My 
work-table  groans  with  it.  Books  by  Freud, 
the  new  Messiah;  books  by  Jung,  the  new  St. 
Paul ;  the  Psycho-analytical  Review — back  num 
bers  two-fifty  per. 

MABEL 

But  what's  it  all  about? 

STEVE 

All  about  your  subconscious  mind  and  desires 
you  know  not  of.  They  may  be  doing  you  a 
great  deal  of  harm.  You  may  go  crazy  with 
them.  Oh,  yes !  People  are  doing  it  right  and 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

left.     Your  dreaming  you're  a  hen — (Shakes 
his  head  darkly.) 
HENRIETTA 

Any  fool  can  ridicule  anything. 

MABEL 

(hastily,  to  avert  a  quarrel)  But  what  do  you 
say  it  is,  Henrietta? 

STEVE 

(looking  at  his  watch)     Oh,  if  Henrietta's  go 
ing  to  start  that!      (During  Henrietta's  next 
speech  settles  himself  at  work-table  and  sharp 
ens  a  lead  pencil.) 
HENRIETTA 

It's  like  this,  Mabel.  You  want  something. 
You  think  you  can't  have  it.  You  think  it's 
wrong.  So  you  try  to  think  you  don't  want  it. 
Your  mind  protects  you — avoids  pain — by  re 
fusing  to  think  the  forbidden  thing.  But  it's 
there  just  the  same.  It  stays  there  shut  up  in 
your  unconscious  mind,  and  it  festers. 

STEVE 

Sort  of  an  ingrowing,  mental  toe-nail. 

HENRIETTA 

Precisely.  The  forbidden  impulse  is  there  full 
of  energy  which  has  simply  got  to  do  some 
thing.  It  breaks  into  your  consciousness  in  dis 
guise,  masks  itself  in  dreams,  makes  all  sorts 
of  trouble.  In  extreme  cases  it  drives  you  in 
sane. 

MABEL 

(with  a  gesture  of  horror)     Oh ! 
HENRIETTA  (reassuring) 

But  psychoanalysis  has  found  out  how  to  save 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


us  from  that.  It  brings  into  consciousness  the 
suppressed  desire  that  was  making  all  the  trou 
ble.  Psychoanalysis  is  simply  the  latest  method 
of  preventing  and  curing  insanity. 

STEVE 

(from  his  table)  It  is  also  the  latest  scientific 
method  of  separating  families. 

HENRIETTA  (mildly) 

Families  that  ought  to  be  separated. 

STEVE 

The  Dwights,  for  instance.  You  must  have 
met  them,  Mabel,  when  you  were  here  before. 
Helen  was  living,  apparently,  in  peace  and  hap 
piness  with  good  old  Joe.  Well — she  went  to 
this  psychoanalyzer — she  was  "psyched,"  and 
biff ! — home  she  comes  with  an  unsuppressed 
desire  to  leave  her  husband.  (He  starts  work, 
drawing  lines  on  a  drawing  board  with  a  T- 
square.) 
MABEL 

How  terrible !  Yes,  I  remember  Helen  Dwight. 
But — but  did  she  have  such  a  desire? 

STEVE 

First  she'd  known  of  it. 

MABEL 

And  she  left  him  ? 

HENRIETTA  (coolly) 

Yes,  she  did. 

MABEL 

Wasn't  he  good  to  her? 

HENRIETTA 

Why,  yes;  good  enough. 

19 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MABEL 

Wasn't  he  kind  to  her? 

HENRIETTA 

Oh,  yes — kind  to  her. 

MABEL 

And  she  left  her  good,  kind  husband? 

HENRIETTA 

Oh,  Mabel!  "Left  her  good,  kind  husband!" 
How  naive — forgive  me,  dear — but  how  bour- 
geoise  you  are!  She  came  to  know  herself. 
And  she  had  the  courage ! 

MABEL 

I  may  be  very  naive  and — bourgeoise — but  I 
don't  see  the  good  of  a  new  science  that  breaks 
up  homes.     (Steve  applauds.) 
STEVE 

In  enlightening  Mabel,  we  mustn't  neglect  to 
mention  the  case  of  Art  Holden's  private  sec 
retary,  Mary  Snow,  who  has  just  been  informed 
of  her  suppressed  desire  for  her  employer. 

MABEL 

Why,  I  think  it  is  terrible,  Henrietta !  It  would 
be  better  if  we  didn't  know  such  things  about 
ourselves. 

HENRIETTA 

No,  Mabel,  that  is  the  old  way. 

MABEL 

But — but  her  employer?       Is  he  married? 
STEVE  (grunts) 

Wife  and  four  children. 

MABEL 

Well,  then,  what  good  does  it  do  the  girl  to  be 

20 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


told  she  has  a  desire  for  him?  There's  nothing 
can  be  done  about  it. 

HENRIETTA 

Old  institutions  will  have  to  be  reshaped  so  that 
something  can  be  done  in  such  cases.  It  hap 
pens,  Mabel,  that  this  suppressed  desire  was 
on  the  point  of  landing  Mary  Snow  in  the  in 
sane  asylum.  Are  you  so  tightminded  that 
you'd  rather  have  her  in  the  insane  asylum  than 
break  the  conventions? 

MABEL 

But — but  have  people  always  had  these  awful 
suppressed  desires? 

HENRIETTA 

Always. 

STEVE 

But  they've  just  been  discovered. 

HENRIETTA 

The  harm  they  do  has  just  been  discovered. 
And  free,  sane  people  must  face  the  fact  that 
they  have  to  be  dealt  with. 
MABEL  (stoutly) 

I  don't  believe  they  have  them  in  Chicago. 

HENRIETTA 

(business  of  giving  Mabel  up)  People  "have 
them"  wherever  the  living  Libido — the  center 
of  the  soul's  energy — is  in  conflict  with  petrified 
moral  codes.  That  means  everywhere  in  civili 
zation.  Psychoanalysis — 

STEVE 

Good  God!    I've  got  the  roof  in  the  cellar! 

HENRIETTA 

The  roof  in  the  cellar ! 

21 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


STEVE 

(holding  plan  at  arm1 3  length)  That's  what 
psychoanalysis  does! 

HENRIETTA 

That's  what  psychoanalysis  could  un-do.  Is  it 
any  wonder  I'm  concerned  about  Steve?  He 
dreamed  the  other  night  that  the  walls  of  his 
room  melted  away  and  he  found  himself  alone 
in  a  forest.  Don't  you  see  how  significant  it 
is  for  an  architect  to  have  walls  slip  away  from 
him  ?  It  symbolizes  his  loss  of  grip  in  his  w  ork. 
There's  some  suppressed  desire — 
STEVE 

(hurling  his  ruined  plan  viciously  to  the  floor) 
Suppressed  hell! 

HENRIETTA 

You  speak  more  truly  than  you  know.  It  is 
through  suppressions  that  hells  are  formed  in  us. 

MABEL 

(looking  at  Steve,  who  is  tearing  his  hair) 
Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing,  Hen 
rietta,  if  we  went  somewhere  else?  (They  rise 
and  begin  to  pick  up  the  dishes.  Mabel  drops 
a  plate,  which  breaks.  Henrietta  draws  up 
short  and  looks  at  her — the  psychoanalytic 
look)  I'm  sorry,  Henrietta.  One  of  the  Spode 
plates,  too.  (Surprised  and  resentful  as  Hen 
rietta  continues  to  peer  at  her)  Don't  take  it 
so  to  heart,  Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA 

I  can't  help  taking  it  to  heart. 

MABEL 

I'll  get  you  another.     (Pause.     More  sharply 

22 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


as  Henrietta  does  not  answer)  I  said  I'll  get 
you  another  plate,  Henrietta. 

HENRIETTA 

It's  not  the  plate. 

MABEL 

For  heaven's  sake,  what  is  it  then? 

HENRIETTA 

It's  the  significant  little  false  movement  that 
made  you  drop  it. 

MABEL 

Well,  I  suppose  everyone  makes  a  false  move 
ment  once  in  a  while. 

HENRIETTA 

Yes,  Mabel,  but  these  false  movements  all  mean 
something. 
MABEL  (about  to  cry) 

I  don't  think  that's  very  nice !  It  was  just  be 
cause  I  happened  to  think  of  that  Mabel  Snow 
you  were  talking  about — 

HENRIETTA 

Mabel  Snow! 

MABEL 

Snow — Snow — well,  what  was  her  name,  then  ? 

HENRIETTA 

Her  name  is  Mary.  You  substituted  your  own 
name  for  hers. 

MABEL 

Well,  Mary  Snow,  then ;  Mary  Snow.    I  never 

heard  her  name  but  once.    I  don't  see  anything 

to  make  such  a  fuss  about. 
HENRIETTA  (gently) 

Mabel,  dear,  mistakes  like  that  in  names — 

23 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MABEL   (desperately) 

They  don't  mean  something,  too,  do  they? 
HENRIETTA  (gently) 

I  am  sorry,  dear,  but  they  do. 

MABEL 

But  I'm  always  doing  that! 

HENRIETTA 

(after  a  start  of  horror)     My  poor  little  sister, 

tell  me  all  about  it. 
MABEL 

About  what? 

HENRIETTA 

About  your  not  being  happy.  About  your  long 
ing  for  another  sort  of  life. 

MABEL 

But  I  don't. 

HENRIETTA 

Ah,  I  understand  these  things,  dear.  You  feel 
Bob  is  limiting  you  to  a  life  in  which  you  do 
not  feel  free — 

MABEL 

Henrietta !    When  did  I  ever  say  such  a  thing  ? 

HENRIETTA 

You  said  you  are  not  in  touch  with  things  in 
tellectual.  You  showed  your  feeling  that  it  is 
Bob's  profession — that  has  engendered  a  re 
sentment  which  has  colored  your  whole  life 
with  him. 

MABEL 

Why — Henrietta  I 

HENRIETTA 

Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  little  sister.  There's 
nothing  can  shock  me  or  turn  me  from  you.  I 

24 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


am  not  like  that.  I  wanted  you  to  come  for 
this  visit  because  I  had  a  feeling  that  you  needed 
more  from  life  than  you  were  getting.  No  one 
of  these  things  I  have  seen  would  excite  my 
suspicion.  It's  the  combination.  You  don't  eat 
breakfast  (enumerating  on  her  fingers) ;  you 
make  false  moves;  you  substitute  your  own 
name  for  the  name  of  another  whose  love  is 
misdirected.  You're  nervous;  you  look  queer; 
in  your  eyes  there's  a  frightened  look  that  is 
most  unlike  you.  And  this  dream.  A  hen. 
Come  with  me  this  afternoon  to  Dr.  Russell ! 
Your  whole  life  may  be  at  stake,  Mabel. 

MABEL  (gasping) 

Henrietta,  I — you — you  always  were  the  smart 
est  in  the  family,  and  all  that,  but — this  is  ter 
rible!  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  think  such 
things  (brightening).  Why,  I'll  tell  you  why 
I  dreamed  I  was  a  hen.  It  was  because  last 
night,  telling  about  that  time  in  Chicago,  you 
said  I  was  as  mad  as  a  wet  hen. 

HENRIETTA  (superior) 

Did  you  dream  you  were  a  wet  hen? 

MABEL 

(forced  to  admit  it)     No. 
HENRIETTA 

No.  You  dreamed  you  were  a  dry  hen.  And 
why,  being  a  hen,  were  you  urged  to  step  ? 

MABEL 

Maybe  it's  because  when  I  am  getting  on  a 
street  car  it  always  irritates  me  to  have  them 
call  "Step  lively." 

25 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

HENRIETTA 

No,  Mabel,  that  is  only  a  child's  view  of  it — if 
you  will  forgive  me.  You  see  merely  the  ele 
ments  used  in  the  dream.  You  do  not  see  into 
the  dream;  you  do  not  see  its  meaning.  This 
dream  of  the  hen — 

STEVE 

Hen — hen — wet  hen — dry  hen — mad  hen! 
(jumps  up  in  a  rage)  Let  me  out  of  this ! 

HENRIETTA 

(hastily  picking  up  dishes,  speaks  soothingly) 
just  a  minute,  dear,  and  we'll  have  things  so 
you  can  work  in  quiet.  Mabel  and  I  are  going 
to  sit  in  my  room.  *  (She  goes  out  left,  carrying 
dishes.) 

STEVE 

(seizing  hat  and  coat  from  an  alcove  near  the 
outside  door)  I'm  going  to  be  psychoanalyzed. 
I'm  going  now !  I'm  going  straight  to  that  in 
fallible  doctor  of  hers — that  priest  of  this  new 
religion.  If  he's  got  honesty  enough  to  tell 
Henrietta  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  my 
unconscious  mind,  perhaps  I  can  be  let  alone 
about  it,  and  then  I  will  be  all  right.  (From 
the  door  in  a  low  voice)  Don't  tell  Henrietta 
I'm  going.  It  might  take  weeks,  and  I  couldn't 
stand  all  the  talk.  (He  hurries  out.) 

HENRIETTA  (returning) 

Where's  Steve?    Gone?     (with  a  hopeless  ges 
ture)     You  see  how  jmpos&tnt  he  is — how  un 
like  himself!     I  tell  you,   Mabel,   I'm  nearly 
distracted  about  Steve. 
26 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


MABEL 

I  think  he's  a  little  distracted,  too. 

HENRIETTA 

Well,  if  he's  gone,  you  might  as  well  stay  here. 
I  have  a  committee  meeting  at  the  book-shop, 
and  will  have  to  leave  you  to  yourself  for  an 
hour  or  two.  (As  she  puts  her  hat  on,  taking  it 
from  the  alcove  where  Steve  found  his,  her  eye, 
lighting  up  almost  carnivorous ly,  falls  on  an 
enormous  volume  on  the  floor  beside  the  work- 
table.  The  book  has  been  half  hidden  by  the 
wastebasket.  She  picks  it  up  and  carries  it 
around  the  table  toward  Mabel)  Here,  dear, 
is  one  of  the  simplest  statements  of  psychoanal 
ysis.  You  just  read  this  and  then  we  can  talk 
more  intelligently.  (Mabel  takes  volume  and 
staggers  back  under  its  weight  to  chair  rear 
center.  Henrietta  goes  to  outer  door,  stops  and 
asks  abruptly)  How  old  is  Lyman  Eggleston? 

MABEL  (promptly) 

He  isn't  forty  yet.  Why,  what  made  you  ask 
that,  Henrietta  ?  (As  she  turns  her  head  to  look 
at  Henrietta  her  hands  move  toward  the  upper 
corners  of  the  book  balanced  on  her  knees.) 

HENRIETTA 

Oh,  nothing.    Au  revoir.    (She  goes  out.    Ma 
bel  stares  at  the  ceiling.     The  book  slides  to  the 
floor.     She  starts;  looks  at  the  book,  then  at 
the  broken  plate  on  the  table)    The  plate !  The 
book !     (She  lifts  her  eyes,  leans  forward  elbow 
on    knee,    chin    on    knuckles    and    plaintively 
queries)     Am  I  unhappy? 
[CURTAIN] 
27 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


SCENE  II 

The  stage  is  as  in  Scene  I,  except  that  the  break- 
fast  table  has  been  removed.  During  the  first 
few  minutes  the  dusk  of  a  winter  afternoon 
deepens.  Out  of  the  darkness  spring  rows  of 
double  street-lights,  almost  meeting  in  the  dis 
tance.  Henrietta  is  at  the  psychoanalytical  end 
of  Steve's  work-table,  surrounded  by  open 
books  and  periodicals,  writing.  Steve  enters 
briskly. 

STEVE 

What  are  you  doing,  my  dear? 

HENRIETTA 

My  paper  for  the  Liberal  Club. 

STEVE 

Your  paper  on — 

HENRIETTA 

On  a  subject  which  does  not  have  your  sym 
pathy. 

STEVE 

Oh,  I'm  not  sure  I'm  wholly  out  of  sympathy 
with  psychoanalysis,  Henrietta.  You  worked 
it  so  hard.  I  couldn't  even  take  a  bath  without 
it's  meaning  something. 

HENRIETTA  (loftily.) 

I  talked  it  because  I  knew  you  needed  it. 

STEVE 

You  haven't  said  much  about  it  these  last  two 
28 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


weeks.     Uh  —  your  faith  in  it  hasn't  weakened 
any? 
HENRIETTA 

Weakened?  It's  grown  stronger  with  each 
new  thing  I've  come  to  know.  And  Mabel. 
She  is  with  Dr.  Russell  now.  Dr.  Russell  is 
wonderful!  From  what  Mabel  tells  me  I  be 
lieve  his  analysis  is  going  to  prove  that  I  was 
right.  To-day  I  discovered  a  remarkable  con 
firmation  of  my  theory  in  the  hen  dream. 

STEVE 

What  is  your  theory? 

HENRIETTA 

Well,  you  know  about  Lyman  Eggleston.  I've 
wondered  about  him.  I've  never  seen  him,  but 
I  know  he's  less  bourgeois  than  Mabel's  other 
friends  —  more  intellectual  —  and  (significantly) 
she  doesn't  see  much  of  him  because  Bob  doesn't 
like  him. 
STEVE 

But  what's  the  confirmation? 

HENRIETTA 

To-day  I  noticed  the  first  syllable  of  his  name. 
STEVE 
Ly? 

HENRIETTA 

No  —  egg. 

STEVE 


HENRIETTA  (patiently) 

Mabel  dreamed  she  was  a  hen.    (Steve  laughs) 
You  wouldn't  laugh  if  you  knew  how  important 
names  are  in  interpreting  dreams.     Freud  is 
29 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

full  of  just  such  cases  in  which  a  whole  hidden 
complex  is  revealed  by  a  single  significant  syl 
lable — like  this  egg. 

STEVE 

Doesn't  the  traditional  relation  of  hen  and  egg 
suggest  rather  a  maternal  feeling? 

HENRIETTA 

There  is  something  maternal  in  Mabel's  love, 
of  course;  but  that's  only  one  element. 

STEVE 

Well,  suppose  Mabel  hasn't  a  suppressed  desire 
to  be  this  gentleman's  mother,  but  his  beloved ! 
What's  to  be  done  about  it?  What  about  Bob ? 
Don't  you  think  it's  going  to  be  a  little  rough 
on  him? 
HENRIETTA 

That  can't  be  helped.  Bob,  like  everyone  else, 
must  face  the  facts  of  life.  If  Dr.  Russell 
should  arrive  independently  at  this  same  inter 
pretation,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  advise  Mabel 
to  leave  her  present  husband. 
STEVE 

Um — um!  (The  lights  go  up  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue.  Steve  goes  to  the  window  and  looks  out) 
How  long  is  it  we've  lived  here,  Henrietta  ? 

HENRIETTA 

Why,  this  is  the  third  year,  Steve. 
STEVE 

I — we — one  would  miss  this  view  if  one  went 
away,  wouldn't  one? 

HENRIETTA 

How  strangely  you  speak!  Oh,  Stephen,  I 
wish  you'd  go  to  Dr.  Russell.  Don't  think  my 

30 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


fears  have  abated  because  I've  been  able  to  re 
strain  myself.  I  had  to  go  on  account  of  Mabel. 
But  now,  dear — won't  you  go  ? 

STEVE 

I — (he  breaks  off,  turns  on  the  light,  then  comes 
and  sits  beside  Henrietta)  How  long  have  we 
been  married,  Henrietta? 

HENRIETTA 

Stephen,  I  don't  understand  you!  You  must 
go  to  Dr.  Russell. 

STEVE 

I  have  gone. 

HENRIETTA 

You — what  ? 
STEVE  (jauntily) 

Yes,  Henrietta,  I've  been  psyched. 

HENRIETTA 

You  went  to  Dr.  Russell  ? 

STEVE 

The  same. 

HENRIETTA 

And  what  did  he  say? 
STEVE 

He  said — I — I  was  a  little  surprised  by  what 

he  said,  Henrietta.     ; 
HENRIETTA  (breathlessly) 

Of  course — one  can  so  seldom  anticipate.    But 

tell  me- — your  dream,  Stephen !     It  means — 
STEVE 

It  means — I  was  considerably  surprised  by  what 

it  means. 

HENRIETTA 

Don't  be  so  exasperating! 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


STEVE 

It  means — you  really  want  to  know,  Henrietta  ? 

HENRIETTA 

Stephen,  you'll  drive  me  mad! 

STEVE 

He  said — of  course  he  may  be  wrong  in  what 
he  said. 

HENRIETTA 

He  isn't  wrong.     Tell  me ! 

STEVE 

He  said  my  dream  of  the  walls  receding  and 
leaving  me  alone  in  a  forest  indicates  a  sup 
pressed  desire — 

HENRIETTA 

Yes — yes ! 

STEVE 

To  be  freed  from — 

HENRIETTA 

Yes — freed  from — 
STEVE 

Marriage. 

HENRIETTA 

(crumples.     Stares)     Marriage ! 
STEVE 

He — he  may  be  mistaken,  you  know. 
HENRIETTA 

May  be  mistaken? 

STEVE 

I — well,  of  course,  I  hadn't  taken  any  stock  in 
it  myself.     It  was  only  your  great  confidence — 
HENRIETTA 

Stephen,  are  you  telling  me  that  Dr.  Russell — 
Dr.  A.  E.  Russell — told  you  this?  (Steve  nods) 

32 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


Told  you  you  had  a  suppressed  desire  to  sep 
arate  from  me? 

STEVE 

That's  what  he  said. 

HENRIETTA 

Did  he  know  who  you  were? 

STEVE 

Yes. 

HENRIETTA 

That  you  were  married  to  me? 
STEVE 

Yes,  he  knew  that. 

HENRIETTA 

And  he  told  you  to  leave  me? 

STEVE 

It  seems  he  must  be  wrong,  Henrietta. 
HENRIETTA  (rising) 

And  I've  sent  him  more  patients!      (Catches 

herself  and  resumes  coldly)     What  reason  did 

he  give  for  this  analysis? 
STEVE 

He  says  the  confining  walls  are  a  symbol  of  my 

feeling  about  marriage  and  that  their  fading 

away  is  a  wish-fulfillment. 
HENRIETTA  (gulping) 

Well,  is  it?    Do  you  want  our  marriage  to  end? 
STEVE 

It  was  a  great  surprise  to  me  that  I  did.    You 

see  I  hadn't  known  what  was  in  my  unconscious 

mind. 
HENRIETTA  (flaming) 

What  did  you  tell  Dr.  Russell  about  me  to  make 

him  think  you  weren't  happy? 

33 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

STEVE  ' 

I  never  told  him  a  thing,  Henrietta.  He  got  it 
all  from  his  confounded  clever  inferences.  I — 
I  tried  to  refute  them,  but  he  said  that  was  only 
part  of  my  self-protective  lying. 

HENRIETTA 

And  that's  why  you  were  so — happy — when 
you  came  in  just  now? 

STEVE 

Why,  Henrietta,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
I  was  sad.  Didn't  I  speak  sadly  of — of  the 
view?  Didn't  I  ask  how  long  we  had  been 
married? 

HENRIETTA  (rising) 

Stephen  Brewster,  have  you  no  sense  of  the 
seriousness  of  this?  Dr.  Russell  doesn't  know 
what  our  marriage  has  been.  You  do.  You 
should  have  laughed  him  down.  Confined — in 
life  with  me  ?  Did  you  tell  him  that  I  believe 
in  freedom? 

STEVE 

I  very  emphatically  told  him  that  his  results 
were  a  great  surprise  to  me. 

HENRIETTA 

But  you  accepted  them. 

STEVE 

Oh,  not  at  all.  I  merely  couldn't  refute  his  ar 
guments.  I'm  not  a  psychologist.  I  came  home 
to  talk  it  over  with  you.  You  being  a  disciple 
of  psychoanalysis — 

HENRIETTA 

If  you  are  going,  I  wish  you  would  go  to-night ! 
34 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


STEVE 

Oh,  my  dear!  I — surely  I  couldn't  do  that! 
Think  of  my  feelings.  And  my  laundry  hasn't 
come  home. 

HENRIETTA 

I  ask  you  to  go  to-night.  Some  women  would 
falter  at  this,  Steve,  but  I  am  not  such  a  woman. 
I  leave  you  free.  I  do  not  repudiate  psychoan 
alysis  ;  I  say  again  that  it  has  done  great  things. 
It  has  also  made  mistakes,  of  course.  But  since 
you  accept  this  analysis — (She  sits  down  and 
pretends  to  begin  work)  I  have  to  finish  this 
paper.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me. 

STEVE 

(scratches  his  head,  goes  to  the  inner  door) 
I'm  sorry,  Henrietta,  about  my  unconscious 
mind.  (Alone,  Henrietta's  face  betrays  her 
outraged  state  of  mind — disconcerted,  resent 
ful,  trying  to  pull  herself  together.  She  attains 
an  air  of  bravely  bearing  an  outrageous  thing. 
Mabel  enters  in  great  excitement.) 
MABEL  (breathless) 

Henrietta,  I'm  so  glad  you're  here.  And  alone? 
(Looks  toward  the  inner  door)  Are  you  alone, 
Henrietta  ? 

HENRIETTA 

(With  reproving  dignity)     Very  much  so. 
MABEL 

(rushing  to  her)     Henrietta,  he's  found  it! 

HENRIETTA  (aloof) 

Who  has  found  what? 
35 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


MABEL 

Who  has  found  what?  Dr.  Russell  has  found 
my  suppressed  desire. 

HENRIETTA 

That  is  interesting. 

MABEL 

He  finished  with  me  to-day.  He  got  hold  of 
my  complex  in  the  most  amazing  way !  But, 
oh,  Henrietta,  it  is  so  terrible ! 

HENRIETTA 

Do  calm  yourself,  Mabel.  Surely  there's  no 
occasion  for  all  this  agitation. 

MABEL 

But  there  is!  And  when  you  think  of  the  lives 
that  are  affected — the  readjustments  that  must 
be  made  in  order  to  bring  the  suppressed  hell 
out  of  me  and  save  me  from  the  insane  asylum — 

HENRIETTA 

The  insane  asylum ! 

MABEL 

You  said  that's  where  these  complexes  brought 
people ! 

HENRIETTA 

What  did  the  doctor  tell  you,  Mabel? 

MABEL 

Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  can  tell  you — it  is  so 
awful — so  unbelievable. 

HENRIETTA 

I  rather  have  my  hand  in  at  hearing  the  unbe 
lievable. 
MABEL 

Henrietta,  who  would  ever  have  thought  it? 
How  can  it  be  true?  But  the  doctor  is  per- 

36 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


fectly  certain  that  I  have  a  suppressed  desire 
for — (Looks  at  Henrietta,  is  unable  to  con 
tinue.) 

HENRIETTA 

Oh,  go  on,  Mabel.  I'm  not  unprepared  for 
what  you  have  to  say. 

MABEL 

Not  unprepared?  You  mean  you  have  sus 
pected  it? 

HENRIETTA 

From  the  first.     It's  been  my  theory  all  along. 
MABEL 

But,  Henrietta,  I  didn't  know  myself  that  I  had 
this  secret  desire  for  Stephen. 

HENRIETTA 

(jumps  up)     Stephen! 

MABEL 

My  brother-in-law !     My  own  sister's  husband ! 

HENRIETTA 

You  have  a  suppressed  desire  for  Stephen! 

MABEL 

Oh,  Henrietta,  aren't  these  unconscious  selves 
terrible?  They  seem  so  unlike  us! 

HENRIETTA 

What  insane  thing  are  you  driving  at? 
MABEL  (blubbering) 

Henrietta,   don't  you   use   that   word   to   me. 

I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  insane  asylum. 

HENRIETTA 

What  did  Dr.  Russell  say? 

MABEL 

Well,  you  see — oh,  it's  the  strangest  thing! 
But  you  know  the  voice  in  my  dream  that  called 

37 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

"Step,  Hen !"  Dr.  Russell  found  out  to-day  that 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  I  had 'a  story-book  in 
words  of  one  syllable  and  I  read  the  name 
Stephen  wrong.  I  used  to  read  it  S-t-e-p,  step, 
h-e-n,  hen.  (Dramatically)  Step  Hen  is  Stephen. 
(Enter  Stephen,  his  head  bent  over  a  time-table) 
Stephen  is  Step  Hen! 

STEVE 

I?    Step  Hen? 

MABEL  (triumphantly) 

S-t-e-p,  step,  H-e-n,  hen,  Stephen! 

HENRIETTA  (exploding) 

Well,  what  if  Stephen  is  Step  Hen?  (Scorn 
fully)  Step  Hen !  Step  Hen !  For  that  ridic 
ulous  coincidence — 

MABEL 

Coincidence!     But  it's  childish  to  look  at  the 
mere  elements  of  a  dream.    You  have  to  look 
into  it — you  have  to  see  what  it  means! 
HENRIETTA 

On  account  of  that  trivial,  meaningless  play  on 
syllables — on  that  flimsy  basis — you  are  ready 
—(Wails)  O-h! 

STEVE 

What  on  earth's  the  matter?  What  has  hap 
pened?  Suppose  I  am  Step  Hen?  What  about 
it?  What  does  it  mean? 

MABEL  (crying) 

It  means — that  I — have  a  suppressed  desire 
for  you! 

STEVE 

For  me!  The  deuce  you  have?  (Feebly) 
What — er — makes  you  think  so? 

38 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


MABEL 

Dr.  Russell  has  worked  it  out  scientifically. 

HENRIETTA 

Yes.    Through  the  amazing  discovery  that  Step 
Hen  equals  Stephen! 
MABEL  (tearfully) 

Oh,  that  isn't  all — that  isn't  near  all.  Henri 
etta  won't  give  me  a  chance  to  tell  it.  She'd 
rather  I'd  go  to  the  insane  asylum  than  be  un 
conventional. 

HENRIETTA 

We'll  all  go  there  if  you  can't  control  yourself. 
We  are  still  waiting  for  some  rational  report. 

MABEL 

(drying  her  eyes)  Oh,  there's  such  a  lot  about 
names.  (With  some  pride)  I  don't  see  how 
I  ever  did  it.  It  all  works  in  together.  I 
dreamed  I  was  a  hen  because  that's  the  first 
syllable  of  Hen-rietta's  name;  and  when  I 
dreamed  I  was  a  hen,  I  was  putting  myself  in 
Henrietta's  place. 

HENRIETTA 

With  Stephen? 

MABEL 

With  Stephen. 

HENRIETTA  {outraged) 

Oh!  (Turns  in  rage  upon  Stephen,  who  is  fan 
ning  himself  with  the  time-table)  What  are 
you  doing  with  that  time-table? 

STEVE 

Why — I  thought — you  were  so  keen  to  have  me 
go  to-night — I  thought  I'd  just  take  a  run  up  to 
Canada, and  join  Billy — a  little  shooting — but — 

39 


THE  PROVINCETQWN   PLAYS 

MABEL 

But  there's  more  about  the  names. 

HENTUETTA 

Mabel,  have  you  thought  of  Bob — dear  old 
Bob — your  good,  kind  husband? 

MABEL 

Oh,  Henrietta,  "my  good,  kind  husband !" 

HENRIETTA 

Think  of  him,  Mabel,  out  there  alone  in  Chi 
cago,  working  his  head  ofi,  fixing  people's  teeth 
— for  you! 

MABEL 

Yes,  but  think  of  the  living  Libido — in  conflict 
with  petrified  moral  codes!  And  think  of  the 
perfectly  wonderful  way  the  names  all  prc 
Dr.  Russell  said  he's  never  seen  anything  more 
convincing.  Just  look  at  Stephen's  last  name — 
Brewster.  I  dream  I'm  a  hen,  the  name  Brew- 
ster — you  have  to  say  its  first  letter  by  itself — 
and  then  the  hen — that's  me — she  says  to  him : 
"Stephen,  Be  Rooster!"  (Henrietta  and  Ste 
phen  collapse  into  the  nearest  chairs.) 

MABEL 

I  think  it's  perfectly  wonderful!  Why,  if  it 
wasn't  for  psychoanalysis  you'd  never  find  out 
how  wonderful  your  own  mind  is ! 

STEVE 

(begins  to  chuckle)  Be  Rooster,  Stephen,  Be 
Rooster ! 

HENRIETTA 

You  think  it's  funny,  do  you? 
40 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


STEVE 

Well,  what's  to  be  done  about  it?    Does  Mabel 
have  to  go  away  with  me? 
HENRIETTA 

Do  you  want  Mabel  to  go  away  with  you? 

STEVE 

Well,  but  Mabel  herself — her  complex — her 
suppressed  desire— 
HENRIETTA 

(going  to  her)     Mabel,  are  you  going  to  insist 
on  going  away  with  Stephen? 

MABEL 

I'd  rather  go  with  Stephen  than  go  to  the  insane 

asylum ! 

HENRIETTA 

For  heaven's  sake,  Mabel,  drop  that  insane 
asylum!  If  you  did  have  a  suppressed  desire 
for  Stephen  hidden  away  in  you — God  knows 
it  isn't  hidden  now.  Dr.  Russell  has  brought 
it  into  your  consciousness — with  a  vengeance. 
That's  all  that's  necessary  to  break  up  a  com 
plex.  Psychoanalysis  doesn't  say  you  have  to 
gratify  every  suppressed  desire. 
STEVE  (softly) 

Unless  it's  for  Lyman  Eggleston. 

HENRIETTA 

(turning  on  him)     Well,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
Stephen  Brewster,  I'd  like  to  know  why  that 
interpretation  of  mine  isn't  as  good  as  this  one  ? 
Step,  Hen! 
STEVE 

But  Be   Rooster!      (He  pauses,  chuckling  to 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

himself)    Step-Hen  B-rooster.   And  Henrietta. 

Pshaw,  my  dear,  Doc  Russell's  got  you  beat  a 

mile!      (He   turns   away   and   chuckles)      Be 

rooster  I 
MABEL 

What  has  Lyman  Eggleston  got  to  do  with  it? 
STEVE 

According  to  Henrietta,  you,  the  hen,  have  a 

suppressed  desire  for  E^leston,  the  egg. 

MABEL 

Henrietta,  I  think  that's  indecent  of  you !  He 
is  bald  as  an  egg  and  little  and  fat — the  idea  of 
you  thinking  such  a  thing  of  me !  , 

HENRIETTA 

Well,  Bob  isn't  little  and  bald  and  fat!  Why 
don't  you  stick  to  your  own  husband?  (To 
Stephen)  What  if  Dr.  Russell's  interpretation 
has  got  mine  "beat  a  mile?"  (Resentful  look 
at  him)  It  would  only  mean  that  Mabel  doesn't 
want  Eggleston  and  does  want  you.  Does  that 
mean  she  has  to  have  you? 

MABEL 

But  you  said  Mabel  Snow — 

HENRIETTA 

Mary  Snow!  You're  not  as  much  like  her  as 
you  think — substituting  your  name  for  hers ! 
The  cases  are  entirely  different.  Oh,  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  this  of  you,  Mabel.  (Beginning 
to  cry)  I  brought  you  here  for  a  pleasant  visit 
—thought  you  needed  brightening  up — wanted 
to  be  nice  to  you — and  now  you — my  husband 
— you  insist —  (In  fumbling  her  way  to  her 

42 


SUPPRESSED  DESIRES 


chair  she  brushes  to  the  floor  some  sheets  from 
the  psychoanalytical  table.) 

STEVE 

(with  solicitude)  Careful,  dear.  Your  paper 
on  psychoanalysis !  (Gathers  up  sheets  and  of 
fers  them  to  her.) 

HENRIETTA 

I  don't  want  my  paper  on  psychoanalysis  I  I'm 
sick  of  psychoanalysis  I 

STEVE  (eagerly) 

Do  you  mean  that,  Henrietta? 

HENRIETTA 

Why  shouldn't  I  mean  it?     Look  at  all  I've 
done  for  psychoanalysis — and — (raising  a  tear- 
stained  face)  what  has  psychoanalysis  done  for 
me? 
STEVE 

Do  you  mean,  Henrietta,  that  you're  going  to 
stop  talking  psychoanalysis? 
HENRIETTA 

Why  shouldn't  I  stop  talking  it?  Haven't  I 
seen  what  it  does  to  people  ?  Mabel  has  gone 
crazy  about  psychoanalysis!  (At  the  word 
"crazy,"  with  a  moan,  Mabel  sinks  to  chair  and 
buries  her  face  in  her  hands.) 
STEVE  (solemnly) 

Do  you  swear  never  to  wake  me  up  in  the  night 
to  find  out  what  I'm  dreaming? 

HENRIETTA 

Dream  what  you  please — I  don't  care  what 
you're  dreaming. 

43 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

STEVE 

Will  you  clear  off  my  work-table  so  the  Journal 
of  Morbid  Psychology  doesn't  stare  me  in  the 
face  when  I'm  trying  to  plan  a  house? 

HENRIETTA 

(pushing  a  stack  of  periodicals  of  the  table) 
I'll  burn  the  Journal  of  Morbid  Psychology ! 

STEVE 

My  dear  Henrietta,  if  you're  going  to  separate 
from  psychoanalysis,  there's  no  reason  why  I 
should  separate  from  you.  (They  embrace 
ardently.  Mabel  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at 
them  woefully.) 

MABEL 

(jumping  up  and  going  toward  them)      But 
what  about  me?     What  am  I  to  do  with  my 
suppressed  desire? 
STEVE 

(with  one  arm  still  around  Henrietta,  gives 
Mabel  a  brotherly  hug)  Mabel,  you  just  keep 
right  on  suppressing  it! 

[CURTAIN] 


44 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 

A  PLAY 

BY  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


First  printed  in  "Reedy's  Mirror,"  St.  Louis.  Application  to 
produce  this  play  should  be  made  to  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay,  in 
care  of  the  Provincetown  Players,  133  Macdougal  St.,  New  York. 


PERSONS 

PIERROT 

COLUMBINE 

COTHURNUS  (masque  of  tragedy) 

THYRSIS  (shepherd) 

CoRYDON  (shepherd) 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 

SCENE — A  Stage 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  stage  set  for  a  Harlequin 
ade,  a  merry  black  and  white  interior.  Di 
rectly  behind  the  footlights,  and  running  par 
allel  with  them,  is  a  long  table,  covered  with  a 
gay  black  and  white  cloth,  on  which  is  spread 
a  banquet.  At  the  opposite  ends  of  this  table, 
seated  on  delicate  thin-legged  chairs  with  high 
backs,  are  Pierrot  and  Columbine,  dressed  ac 
cording  to  the  tradition,  excepting  that  Pierrot 
is  in  lilac,  and  Columbine  in  pink.  They  are 
dining. 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  a  macaroon!  I  cannot  live  without  a 
macaroon ! 

PIERROT 

My  only  love,  you  are  so  intense.  .  .  .  It  is 
Tuesday,  Columbine?  I'll  kiss  you  if  it's  Tues 
day. 

COLUMBINE 

It  is  Wednesday,  if  you  must  know.    ...    Is 
this  my  artichoke,  or  yours? 
PIERROT 

Ah,  Columbine,  as  if  it  mattered !    Wednesday. 
Will  it  be  Tuesday,  then,  to-morrow, 
by  any  chance? 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

COLUMBINE 

To-morrow  will  be — Pierrot,  that  isn't  funny ! 
PIERROT 

I  thought  it  rather  nice.     Well,  let  us  drink 

some  wine  and  lose  our  heads  and  love  each 

other.      *-» 
COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  don't  you  love  me  now? 
PIERROT 

La,  what  a  woman!     How  should  I  know? 

Pour  me  some  wine;  I'll  tell  you  presently. 
COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  do  you  know,  I  think  you  drink  too 

much! 

PIERROT 

Yes,  I  dare  say  I  do.  .  .  .  Or  else  too  little. 
It  used  to  tell.  You  see,  I  am  always  wanting 
a  little  more  than  what  I  have — or  else  a  little 
less.  There's  something  wrong.  My  dear, 
how  many  fingers  have  you? 

COLUMBINE 

La,  indeed,  how  should  I  know?     It  always 
takes  my  one  hand  to  count  the  other  with.    It's 
too  confusing.     Why? 
PIERROT 

Why?    I  am  a  student,  Columbine,  and  search 
into  all  matters. 
COLUMBINE 

La,  indeed?     Count  them  yourself,  then! 

PIERROT 

No.  Or,  rather,  nay.  'Tis  of  no  consequence. 
.  .  .  I  am  become  a  painter,  suddenly — and 
you  impress  me — Ah,  yes! — six  orange  bull's- 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


eyes,  four  green  pin-wheels,  and  one  magenta 
jelly-roll — the  title  as  follows:  Woman  Tak 
ing  In  Cheese  From  Fire-Escape. 

COLUMBINE 

Well,  I  like  that!     So  that  is  all  I've  meant  to 
you! 
PIERROT 

Hush!  All  at  once  I  am  become  a  pianist.  I 
will  image  you  in  sound,  ...  on  a  new 
scale  .  .  .  without  tonality.  .  .  .  Vivace 
senza  tempo  senza  tutto.  .  .  .  Title :  Up 
town  Express  at  Six  O' Clock.  Pour  me  a  drink. 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  you  work  too  hard.  You  need  a  rest. 
Come  on  out  into  the  garden,  and  sing  me  some 
thing  sad. 

PIERROT 

Don't  stand  so  near  me!  I  am  become  a  so 
cialist.  I  love  humanity,  but  I  hate  people. 
Columbine,  put  on  your  mittens,  child;  your 
hands  are  cold. 

COLUMBINE 

My  hands  are  not  cold. 

PIERROT 

Oh,  I  am  sure  they  are.  And  you  must  have 
a  shawl  to  wrap  about  you,  and  sit  by  the  fire. 

COLUMBINE 

Why,  I'll  do  no  such  thing !    I'm  hot  as  a  spoon 
in  a  tea-cup! 
PIERROT 

Columbine,  I'm  a  philanthropist.  I  know  I  am, 
because  I  feel  so  restless.  Do  not  scream,  or 
it  will  be  the  worse  for  you ! 

49 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  my  vinaigrette  I  I  cannot  live  without 
my  vinaigrette  I 

PIERROT 

My  only  love,  you  are  so  fundamental !  .  .  . 
How  would  you  like  to  be  an  actress,  Colum 
bine?  I  am  become  your  manager. 

COLUMBINE 

Why,  Pierrot,  7  can't  act. 

PIERROT 

Can't  act!  Can't  act!  La,  listen  to  the 
woman !  What's  that  to  do  with  the  price  of 
furs?  You're  blonde,  are  you  not?  You  have 
no  education,  have  you?  Can't  act!  You 
underrate  yourself,  my  dear ! 

COLUMBINE 

Yes,  I  suppose  I  do. 

PIERROT 

As  for  the  rest,  I'll  teach  you  how  to  cry,  and 
how  to  die,  and  other  little  tricks;  and  the 
house  will  love  you.  You'll  be  a  star  by  five 
o'clock.  .  .  .  That  is,  if  you  will  let  me  pay 
for  your  apartment. 

COLUMBINE 

Let  you?  Well,  that's  a  good  one!  Ha!  Ha; 
Ha!  But  why? 

PIERROT 

But  why?  Well,  as  to  that,  my  dear,  I  cannot 
say.  It's  just  a  matter  of  form. 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  I'm  getting  tired  of  caviar  and  pea 
cocks'  livers.  Isn't  there  something  else  that 

50 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


people  eat — some  humble  vegetable  that  grows 
in  the  ground? 

PIERROT 

Well,  there  are  mushrooms. 

COLUMBINE 

Mushrooms!  That's  so!  I  had  forgotten 
.  .  .  mushrooms  .  .  .  mushrooms.  .  .  . 
I  cannot  live  with.  .  .  .  How  do  you  like 
this  gown? 

PIERROT 

Not  much.  I'm  tired  of  gowns  that  have  the 
waist-line  about  the  waist,  and  the  hem  around 
the  bottom,  and  women  with  their  breasts  in 
front  of  them!  Zut  and  ehel  Where  does 
one  go  from  here ! 

COLUMBINE 

Here's  a  persimmon,  love.  You  always  liked 
them. 

PIERROT 

I  am  become  a  critic;  there  is  nothing  I  can 
enjoy.  .  .  .  However,  set  it  aside ;  I'll  eat 
it  between  meals. 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  do  you  know,  sometimes  I  think  you're 
making  fun  of  me. 

PIERROT 

My  love,  by  yon  black  moon,  you  wrong  us 
both. 

COLUMBINE 

There  isn't  a  sign  of  a  moon,  Pierrot. 

PIERROT 

Of  course  not.  There  never  was.  "Moon's" 
just  a  word  to  swear  by.  "Mutton!" — now 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

there's  a  thing  you  can  lay  the  hands  on,  and 
set  the  tooth  in  I  Listen,  Columbine :  I  always 
lied  about  the  moon  and  you.  Food  is  my  only 
lust. 

COLUMBINE 

Well,  eat  it,  then,  for  heaven's  sake,  and  stop 
your  silly  noise !  I  haven't  heard  the  clock  tick 
for  an  hour. 

PIERROT 

It's  ticking  all  the  same.  If  you  were  a  fly,  you 
would  be  dead  by  now.  And  if  I  were  a  parrot, 
I  could  be  talking  for  a  thousand  years !  (En 
ters  Cothurnus.) 

PIERROT 

Hello,  what's  this,  for  God's  sake?  What's 
the  matter?  Say,  whadda  you  mean?  Get  off 
the  stage,  my  friend,  and  pinch  yourself — you're 
walking  in  your  sleep  I 

COTHURNUS 

I  never  sleep. 

PIERROT 

Well,  anyhow,  clear  out.    You  don't  belong  on 
here.    Wait  for  your  own  scene  !    Whadda  you 
think  this  is — a  dress-rehearsal? 
COTHURNUS 

Sir,   I   am  tired  of  waiting.      I   will  wait  no 

longer. 
PIERROT 

Well,  but  what  are  you  going  to  do?     The 

scene  is  set  for  me! 
COTHURNUS 

True,  sir;  yet  I  can  play  the  scene. 

52 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


PIERROT 

Your  scene  is  down  for  later! 

COTHURNUS 

That,  too,  is  true,  sir;  but  I  play  it  now. 

PIERROT 

Oh,  very  well.  Anyway,  I  am  tired  of  black 
and  white.  At  least,  I  think  I  am.  (Exit  Col 
umbine)  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  am.  I  know  what 
I'll  do !  I'll  go  and  strum  the  moon — that's 
what  I'll  do.  ...  Unless,  perhaps,  .  .  . 
you  never  can  tell  ...  I  may  be,  you  know, 
tired  of  the  moon.  Well,  anyway,  I'll  go  find 
Columbine.  .  .  .  And  when  I  find  her,  I 
will  address  her  thus :  "Ehe  Pierrette !"  There's 
something  in  that.  (Exit  Pierrot.) 
COTHURNUS 

You,  Thyrsis!    Corydon!    Where  are  you? 

THYRSIS 

Sir,  we  are  in  our  dressing-room! 
COTHURNUS 

Come  out  and  do  the  scene. 
CORYDON 

You  are  mocking  us !     The  scene  is  down  for 

later. 

COTHURNUS 

That  is  true ;  but  we  will  play  it  now.  I  am  the 
scene.  (Seats  himself  on  high  place  in  back  of 
stage.  Enter  Corydon  and  Thyrsis.) 

CORYDON 

Sir,  we  were  counting  on  this  little  hour.  We 
said,  "Here  is  an  hour,  in  which  to  think  a 
mighty  thought,  and  sing  a  trifling  song,  and 
look  at  nothing."  And,  behold!  the  hour,  even 

53 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

as  we  spoke,  was  over,  and  the  act  begun,  under 

our  feet  I 
THYRSIS 

Sir,  we  are  not  in  the  fancy  to  play  the  play. 

We  had  thought  to  play  it  later. 
CORYDON 

Besides,  this  is  the  setting  for  a  farce.     Our 

scene  requires  a  wall;  we  cannot  build  a  wall  of 

tissue-paper  1 

THYRSIS 

We  cannot  act  a  tragedy  with  comic  properties ! 

COTHURNUS 

Try  it  and  see.  I  think  you'll  find  you  can.  One 
wall  is  like  another.  And  regarding  the  mat 
ter  of  your  insufficient  wood,  the  important 
thing  is  that  you  speak  the  lines,  and  make  the 
gestures.  Wherefore  I  shall  remain  through 
out,  and  hold  the  prompt-book.  Are  you  ready  ? 

CORYDON-THYRSIS  (sorrow fully) 
Sir,  we  are  always  ready. 

COTHURNUS 

Play  the  play!  (Cory don  and  Thyrsis  move 
the  table  and  chairs  to  one  side  out  of  the  way, 
and  seat  themselves  in  a  half -re  dining  position 
on  the  floor,  left  of  the  center  of  the  stage, 
propped  up  by  crepe  paper  pillows  and  bolsters, 
in  place  of  rocks.) 

THYRSIS 

How  gently  in  the  silence,  Corydon,  our  sheep 
go  up  the  bank.  They  crop  a  grass  that's  yel 
low  where  the  sun  is  out,  and  black  where  the 
clouds  drag  their  shadows.  Have  you  noticed 

54 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


how  steadily,  yet  with  what  a  slanting  eye  they 
graze  ? 
CORYDON 

As  if  they  thought  of  other  things.  What  say 
you,  Thyrsis ;  do  they  only  question  where  next 
to  pull  ?  Or  do  their  far  minds  draw  them  thus 
vaguely  north  of  west  and  south  of  east? 

THYRSIS 

One  cannot  say.  .  .  .  The  black  lamb  wears 
its  burdocks  as  if  they  were  a  garland — have 
you  noticed  ?  Purple  and  white — and  drink  the 
bitten  grass  as  if  it  were  a  wine. 

CORYDON 

I've  noticed  that.  What  say  you,  Thyrsis ;  shall 
we  make  a  song  about  a  lamb  that  thought  him 
self  a  shepherd? 

THYRSIS 

Why,  yes! — that  is,  why — no.  I  have  forgot 
ten  my  line. 

COTHURNUS  (prompting) 

"I  know  a  game  worth  two  of  that." 

THYRSIS 

Oh,  yes.    ...    I  know  a  game  worth  two  of 
that:   Let's  gather  rocks,  and  build  a  wall  be 
tween  us;  and  say  that  over  there  belongs  to 
me,  and  over  here  to  you! 
CORYDON 

Why — very  well.  And  say  you  may  not  come 
upon  my  side  unless  I  say  you  may! 

THYRSIS 

Nor  you  on  mine !  And  if  you  should,  'twould 
be  the  worse  for  you!  (They  weave  a  wall  of 
colored  crepe  paper  ribbons  from  the  center 

55 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

front  to  the  center  back  of  the  stagey  fastening 
the  ends  to  Columbine's  chair  in  front  and  to 
Pierrot's  chair  in  the  back.) 
CORYDON 

Now,  there's  a  wall  a  man  may  see  across,  but 
not  attempt  to  scale. 

THYRSIS 

An  excellent  wall. 

CORYDON 

Come,  let  us  separate,  and  sit  alone  a  little 
while,  and  lay  a  plot  whereby  we  may  outdo 
each  other.  (They  seat  themselves  on  oppo 
site  sides  of  the  wall.) 

PIERROT 

(of  stage)    Ehe,  Pierrette ! 

COLUMBINE 

(of  stage)  My  name  is  Columbine!  Leave 
me  alone ! 

THYRSIS 

(coming  up  to  the  wall)  Corydon,  after  all, 
and  in  spite  of  the  fact  I  started  it  myself,  I  do 
not  like  this  so  very  much.  What  is  the  sense 
of  saying  I  do  not  want  you  on  my  side  the 
wall  ?  It  is  a  silly  game.  I'd  much  prefer  mak 
ing  the  little  song  you  spoke  of  making,  about 
the  lamb,  you  know,  that  thought  himself  a 
shepherd!  What  do  you  say?  (Pause.) 

CORYDON 

(at  wall)     I  have  forgotten  the  line. 

COTHURNUS  (prompting) 

"How  do  I  know  this  isn't  a  trick?" 

56 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


CORYDON 

Oh,  yes.  .  .  .  How  do  I  know  this  isn't  a 
trick  to  get  upon  my  land? 

THYRSIS 

Oh,  Corydon,  you  know  it's  not  a  trick.     I  do 
not  like  the  game,  that's  all.     Come  over  here, 
or  let  me  come  over  there. 
CORYDON 

It  is  a  clever  trick  to  get  upon  my  land.  (Seats 
himself  as  before.) 

THYRSIS 

Oh,  very  well  I  (Seats  himself  .  .  .  as  be- 
fore)  (To  himself)  I  think  I  never  knew  a 
sillier  game. 

CORYDON 

(coming  to  wall)  Oh,  Thyrsis,  just  a  minute ! 
All  the  water  is  on  your  side  the  wall,  and  the 
sheep  are  thirsty.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 

THYRSIS 

Oh,  hadn't  you? 

CORYDON 

Why,  what  do  you  mean? 

THYRSIS 

What  do  I  mean?     I  mean  that  I  can  play  a 
game  as  well  as  you  can.    And  if  the  pool  is  on 
my  side,  it's  on  my  side,  that's  all. 
CORYDON 

You  mean  you'd  let  the  sheep  go  thirsty? 

THYRSIS 

Well,  they're  not  my  sheep.  My  sheep  have 
water  enough. 

57 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


f(~JT?  YT")ON 

Your  sheep  !  You  are  mad,  to  call  them  yours 
—mine—  they  are  all  one  flock!  Thyrsis,  you 
can't  mean  to  keep  the  water  from  them  just 
because  they  happened  to  be  grazing  over  here 
instead  of  over  there,  when  we  set  the  wall  up? 


l?    Wait  and  see!     And  if  you  try 
to  lead  them  over  here,  you'll  wish  you  hadn  t 

CORYDON 

I  wonder  how  it  happens  all  the  water  is  on 
your  side.  .  .  .  I'll  say  you  had  an  eye  out 
for  lots  of  little  things,  my  innocent  friend, 
when  I  said,  "Let  us  make  a  song,'  and  you 
said,  "I  know  a  game  worth  two  of  that! 

COLUMBINE  ^  u 

(of  stage)     D'you  know,  I  think  you  must  be 
getting  old,  or  fat,  or  something—  stupid,  any 
way!     Can't  you  put  on  some  other  kind 
collar? 

THYRSIS 

You  know  as  well  as  I  do  ,  Corydon,  I  never 
thought  of  anything  of  the  kind.     Don  t  you? 

CORYDON 

I  do  not. 

THYRSIS 

Don't  you? 


suppose  so.     Thyrsis,  let's  drop  this— 
what  do  you  say?    It's  only  a  game,  you  know. 
We  seem  to  be  forgetting  it  s  only  a 
game    .    .    .    a  pretty  serious  game  it's  getting 

58 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


to  be,  when  one  of  us  is  willing  to  let  the  sheep 

go  thirsty,  for  the  sake  of  it. 
THYRSIS 

I  know  it,  Corydon.     (They  reach  out  their 

arms  to  each  other  across  the  wall.) 
COTHURNUS  (prompting) 

"But  how  do  I  know?" 

THYRSIS 

Oh,  yes.     .    .    .     But  how  do  I  know  this  isn't 
a  trick  to  water  your  sheep,  and  get  the  laugh 
on  me? 
CORYDON 

You  can't  know;  that's  the  difficult  thing  about 
it.  Of  course,  you  can't  be  sure;  you  have  to 
take  my  word  for  it — and  I  know  just  how  you 
feel.  But  one  of  us  has  to  take  a  risk,  or  else, 
why,  don't  you  see?  the  game  goes  on  forever. 
It's  terrible,  when  you  stop  to  think  of  it.  ... 
Oh,  Thyrsis,  now  for  the  first  time  I  feel  this 
wall  is  actually  a  wall — a  thing  come  up  be 
tween  us — shutting  me  away  from  you.  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know  you  any  more ! 

THYRSIS 

No,  don't  say  that !  Oh,  Corydon,  I'm  willing 
to  drop  it  all,  if  you  will !  Come  on  over  and 
water  your  sheep!  It  is  an  ugly  game.  I  hate, 
it  from  the  first.  .  .  .  How  did  it  start? 
CORYDON 

I  do  not  know    ...    I  do  not  know.    .    . 
I  think  I  am  afraid  of  you !  You  are  a  stranger ! 
I  never  set  eyes  on  you  before!'    "Come  over 
and  water  my  sheep,"  indeed !    They'll  be  more 
thirsty  than  they  are  now,  before  I  bring  them 

59 


THE  PROVINCETQWN  PLAYS 

over  into  your  land,  and  have  you  mixing  them 
up  with  yours,  and  calling  them  yours,  and  try 
ing  to  keep  them !  (Enter  Columbine.) 

COLUMBINE 

(to  Cothurnus)     Glummy,  I  want  my  hat. 

THYRSIS 

Take  it,  and  go. 

COLUMBINE 

Take  it  and  go,  indeed !  Is  it  my  hat,  or  isn't 
it?  Is  this  my  scene,  or  not?  Take  it,  and  go ! 
Really,  you  know  you  two  are  awfully  funny! 
(Exit  Columbine.) 

THYRSIS 

Corydon,  my  friend,  I'm  going  to  leave  you 
now  and  whittle  me  a  pipe,  or  sing  a  song,  or 
go  to  sleep.  When  you  have  come  to  your 
senses,  let  me  know.  (Goes  back  to  where  he 
has  been  sitting,  lies  down  and.  sleeps.)  (Cory- 
don,  in  going  back  to  where  he  has  been  sitting, 
stumbles  over  bowl  of  colored  confetti  and  col 
ored  paper  ribbons.) 
CORYDON 

Why,  what  is  this?  Red  stones — and  purple 
stones — and  stones  stuck  full  of  gold!  The 
ground  is  full  of  gold  and  colored  stones !  .  .  . 
I'm  glad  the  wall  was  up  before  I  found  them, 
otherwise  I  should  have  had  to  share  them.  As 
it  is,  they  all  belong  to  me.  .  .  .  Unless — (He 
goes  to  wall  and  digs  up  and  down  the  length 
of  it,  to  see  if  there  are  jewels  on  the  other  side) 
None  here — none  here — none  here.  They  all 
belong  to  me!  (Sits.) 
60 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


THYRSIS  (awakening) 

How  curious!  I  thought  the  little  black  lamb 
came  up  and  licked  my  hair!  I  saw  the  wool 
about  its  neck  as  plain  as  anything!  It  must 
have  been  a  dream.  The  little  black  lamb  is 
on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  I'm  sure.  (Goes 
to  wall  and  looks  over.  Corydon  is  seated  on 
the  ground,  tossing  the  confetti  up  into  the  air 
and  catching  it)  Hello,  what's  that  you've  got 
there,  Corydon? 

CORYDON 

Jewels. 

THYRSIS 

Jewels?    And  where  did  you  ever  get  them. 

CORYDON 

Oh,  over  here. 

THYRSIS 

You  mean  to  say  you  found  them  by  digging 
around  in  the  ground  for  them? 
CORYDON  (unpleasantly)     No,  Thyrsis;  by  dig 
ging  down  for  water  for  my  sheep. 

THYRSIS 

Corydon,  come  to  the  wall  a  minute,  will  you? 
I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

CORYDON 

I  haven't  time.  I'm  making  me  a  necklace  of 
red  stones. 

THYRSIS 

I'll  give  you  all  the  water  that  you  want  for  one 
of  those  red  stones — if  it's  a  good  one. 
CORYDON 

Water — what  for — what  do  I  want  of  water? 
61 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THYRSIS 

Why,  for  your  sheep  I 

CORYDON 

My  sheep?    I'm  not  a  shepherd! 

THYRSIS 

Your  sheep  are  dying  of  thirst. 

CORYDON 

Man,  haven't  I  told  you  I  can't  be  bothered 
with  a  few  untidy  brown  sheep,  all  full  of  bur 
docks  ?  I'm  a  merchant,  that's  what  I  am !  And 
I  set  my  mind  to  it,  I  dare  say  I  could  be  an 
emperor!  (To  himself )  Wouldn't  I  be  a  fool 
to  spend  my  time  watching  a  flock  of  sheep  go 
up  a  hill,  when  I  have  these  to  play  with — when 
I  have  these  to  think  about?  I  can't  make  up 
my  mind  whether  to  buy  a  city,  and  have  a  thou 
sand  beautiful  girls  to  bathe  me,  and  be  happy 
until  I  die,  or  build  a  bridge,  and  name  it  the 
Bridge  of  Corydon,  and  be  remembered  after 
I'm  dead. 

THYRSIS 

Corydon,  come  to  the  wall,  won't  you?  I  want 
to  tell  you  something. 

CORYDON 

Hush!  Be  off!  Be  off!  Go  finish  your  nap,  I 
tell  you ! 

THYRSIS 

Corydon,  listen :  if  you  don't  want  your  sheep, 
give  them  to  me. 

CORYDON 

Be  off !    Go  finish  your  nap !    A  red  one — and  a 
blue  one — and  a  red  one — and  a  purple  one. 
Give  you  my  sheep,  did  you  say?    Come,  come ! 
62 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


What  do  you  take  me  for,  a  fool?  I've  a  lot 
of  thinking  to  do — and  while  I'm  thinking  the 
sheep  might  just  as  well  be  over  here  as  over 
there.  ...  A  blue  one — and  a  red  one — 

THYRSIS 

.  But  they  will  die  ! 

CORYDON 

And  a  green  one — and  a  couple  of  white  ones, 
for  a  change. 
THYRSIS 

Maybe  I  have  some  jewels  on  my  side. 

CORYDON 

And  another  green  one — maybe,  but  I   don't 
think  so.    You  see,  this  rock  isn't  so  very  wide. 
It  stops  before  it  gets  to  the  wall.    It  seems  to 
go  quite  deep,  however. 
THYRSIS  (with  hatred)    I  see. 

COLUMBINE 

(of  stage)     Look,  Pierrot,  there's  the  moon! 

PIERROT 

(of  stage)     Nonsense! 

THYRSIS 

I  see. 

COLUMBINE 

(of  stage)  Sing  me  an  old  song,  Pierrot — 
something  I  can  remember. 

PIERROT 

(of  stage)  Columbine,  your  mind  is  made  of 
crumbs — like  an  escallop  of  oysters — first  a 
layer  of  crumbs,  and  then  an  oyster  taste,  and 
then  a  layer  of  crumbs. 

THYRSIS 

I  find  no  jewels    .    .    .    but  I  wonder  what  the 

63 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

root  of  this  black  weed  would  do  to  a  man  if 
he  should  taste  it.  ...  I  have  seen  a  sheep 
die,  with  half  the  stalk  still  drooling  from  its 
mouth.  'Twould  be  a  speedy  remedy,  I  should 
think,  for  a  festered  pride  and  a  feverish  ambi 
tion.  It  has  a  curious  root.  I  think  I'll  hack  it 
in  little  pieces.  .  .  .  First  I'll  get  me  a  drink; 
and  then  I'll  hack  that  root  in  little  pieces  as 
small  as  dust,  and  see  what  the  color  is  inside. 
(Goes  to  bowl  on  floor)  The  pool  is  very  clear. 
I  see  a  shepherd  standing  on  the  brink,  with  a 
red  cloak  about  him,  and  a  black  weed  in  his 
hand.  .  .  .  ?Tis  I.  (Kneels  and  drinks.) 
CORYDON 

(coming  to  wall)     Hello,  what  are  you  doing, 
Thyrsis  ? 
THYRSIS 

Digging  for  gold. 

CORYDON 

I'll  give  you  all  the  gold  you  want,  if  you'll  give 
me  a  bowl  of  water.  If  you  don't  want  too 
much,  that  is  to  say. 

THYRSIS 

Ho,  so  you've  changed  your  mind!     It's  dif 
ferent,  isn't  it,  when  you  want  a  drink  yourself? 
CORYDON 

Of  course  it  is. 

THYRSIS 

Well,  let  me  see     ...     a  bowl  of  water — 
come  back  in  an  hour,  Corydon.    I'm  busy  now. 
CORYDON 

Oh,  Thyrsis,  give  me  a  bowl  of  water,  and  I'll 
fill  the  bowl  with  jewels  and  bring  it  back! 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


THYRSIS 

Be  off,  I'm  busy  now.  (He  catches  sight  of  the 
weed,  picks  it  up  and  looks  at  it,  unseen  by  Cory- 
don)  Wait !  Pick  me  out  the  finest  stones  you 
have.  .  .  .  I'll  bring  you  a  drink  of  water 
presently. 

CORYDON 

(goes  back  and  sits  down,  with  the  jewels  be 
fore  him)  A  bowl  of  jewels  is  a  lot  of  jewels. 

THYRSIS 

(chopping  up  the  weed)  I. wonder  if  it  has  a 
bitter  taste. 

CORYDON 

There's  sure  to  be  a  stone  or  two  among  them 
I  have  grown  fond  of,  pouring  them  from  one 
hand  into  the  other. 

THYRSIS 

I  hope  it  doesn't  taste  too  bitter,  just  at  first. 

CORYDON 

A  bowl  of  jewels  is  far  too  many  jewels  to  give 
away  .  .  .  and  not  get  back  again. 

THYRSIS 

I  don't  believe  he'll  notice — he's  thirsty — he'll 
gulp  it  down  and  never  notice. 

CORYDON 

There  ought  to  be  some  way  to  get  them  back 
again.  ...  I  could  give  him  a  necklace  and 
snatch  it  back,  after  I'd  drunk  the  water,  I  sup 
pose  .  .  .  why,  as  for  that,  of  course,  a 
necklace.  - ...  (He  puts  two  or  three  of  the 
colored  tapes  together  and  tries  their  strength 
by  pulling  them,  after  which  he  puts  them 
Around  his  neck  and  pulls  them,  gently,  nodding 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

to  himself.  He  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  wall, 
with  the  colored  tapes  in  his  hands.  Thyrsis  in 
the  meantime  has  poured  the  powdered  root — 
black  confetti — into  the  pot  which  contains  the 
flower  and  filled  it  up  with  wine  from  the  punch 
bowl  on  the  floor.  He  comes  to  the  wall  at  the 
same  time,  holding  the  bowl  of  poison.) 
THYRSIS 

Come  and  get  your  bowl  of  water,  Corydon. 

CORYDON 

Ah,  very  good!  And  for  such  a  gift  as  that 
I'll  give  you  more  than  a  bowl  of  unset  stones. 
I'll  give  you  three  long  necklaces,  my  friend. 
Come  closer.  Here  they  are.  (Puts  the  rib 
bons  about  Thyrsis'  neck.) 

THYRSIS 

(putting  bowl  to  Corydon's  mouth)  I'll  hold 
the  bowl  until  you've  drunk  it  all. 

CORYDON 

Then  hold  it  steady.  For  every  drop  you  spill 
I'll  have  a  stone  back  out  of  this  chain. 

THYRSIS 

I  shall  not  spill  a  drop.  (Corydon  drinks,  mean 
while  beginning  to  strangle  Thyrsis) 

THYRSIS 

Don't  pull  the  string  so  tight. 

CORYDON 

You're  spilling  the  water. 

THYRSIS 

You've  had  enough — you've  had  enough — stop 
pulling  the  string  so  tight! 

CORYDON 

Why,  that's  not  tight  at  all.    .    .    .    How's  this? 

66 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


THYRSIS 

(drops  bowl)  You're  strangling  me!  Oh, 
Corydon!  It's  only  a  game — and  you  are 
strangling  me ! 

CORYDON 

It's  only  a  game,  is  it?     Yet  I  believe  youVe 
poisoned  me  in  earnest!     (Writhes  and  pulls 
the  strings  tighter,  winding  them  about  Thyrsis' 
neck.) 
THYRSIS 

Corydon !     (Dies.) 

CORYDON 

You've  poisoned  me  in  earnest.  ...  I  feel 
so  cold.  ...  So  cold.  .  .  .  This  is  a  very 
silly  game.  .  .  .  Why  do  we  play  it  ?  Let's 
not  play  this  game  a  minute  more.  .  .  .  Let's 
make  a  little  song  about  a  lamb.  .  .  .  I'm 
coming  over  the  wall,  no  matter  what  you  say 
— I  want  to  be  near  you.  .  .  .  (Groping  his 
way,  with  arms  wide  before  him,  he  strides 
through  the  frail  papers  of  the  wall  without 
knowing  it,  and  continues  seeking  for  the  wall 
straight  across  the  stage)  Where  is  the  wall? 
(Gropes  his  way  back,  and  stands  very  near 
Thyrsis  without  knowing  it;  he  speaks  slowly) 
There  isn't  any  wall,  I  think.  (Takes  a  step 
forward,  his  foot  touches  Thyrsis'  body,  and 
he  falls  down  beside^  him)  Thyrsis,  where  is 
your  cloak?  Just  give  me  a  little  bit  of  your 
cloak!  (Draws  corner  of  Thyrsis'  cloak  over 
his  shoulders,  falls  across  Thyrsis'  body  and 
dies.  Cothurnus  closes  the  prompt-book  with  a 
bang,  arises  matter-of-factly,  comes  down  stage, 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

and  places  the  table  over  the  two  bodies,  draw 
ing  down  the  cover  so  that  they  are  hidden  from 
any  actors  on  the  stage,  but  visible  to  the  audi 
ence,  pushing  in  their  feet  and  hands  with  his 
boot.  He  then  turns  his  back  to  the  audience, 
and  claps  his  hands  twice.) 
COTHURNUS 

Strike   the    scene !      (Exit   Cothurnus.     Enter 
Pierrot  and  Columbine.) 
PIERROT 

Don't  puff  so,  Columbine ! 

COLUMBINE 

Lord,  what  a  mess  this  set  is  in !  If  there's  one 
thing  I  hate  above  everything  else — even  more 
than  getting  my  feet  wet — it's  clutter  I  He 
might  at  least  have  left  the  scene  the  way  he 
found  it  .  .  don't  you  say  so,  Pierrot?  (She 
picks  up  punch  bowl.  They  arrange  chairs  as 
before  at  ends  of  table.) 
PIERROT 

Well,  I  don't  know.    I  think  it  rather  diverting 
the  way  it  is.     (Yawns,  picks  up  confetti  bowl) 
Shall  we  begin? 
COLUMBINE  (screams) 

My  God!    What's  that  there  under  the  table? 

PIERROT 

It  is  the  bodies  of  the  two  shepherds  from  the 
other  play. 

COLUMBINE    (slowly) 

How  curious  to  strangle  him  like  that  with  col 
ored  paper  ribbons. 
PIERROT 

Yes,  and  yet  I  dare  say  he  is  just  as  dead. 

68 


ARIA  DA  CAPO 


(Pause.    Calls  Cothurnus)     Come,  drag  these 
bodies  out  of  here !    We  can't  sit  down  and  eat 
with  two  dead  bodies  lying  under  the  table! 
.     .     .     The  audience  wouldn't  stand  for  it! 
COTHURNUS 

(of  stage)  What  makes  you  think  so?  Pull 
down  the  tablecloth  on  the  other  play,  and  hide 
them  from  the  house,  and  play  the  farce.  The 
audience  will  forget. 

PIERROT 

That's  so.  Give  me  a  hand  there,  Columbine. 
(Pierrot  and  Columbine  pull  down  the  table 
cover  in  such  a  way  that  the  two  bodies  are 
hidden  from  the  house,  then  merrily  set  their 
bowls  back  on  the  table,  draw  up  their  chairs, 
and  begin  the  play  exactly  as  before,  speaking 
even  more  rapidly  and  artificially.) 

COLUMBINE 

Pierrot,  a  macaroon!  I  cannot  live  without  a 
macaroon! 

PIERROT 

My  only  love,  you  are  so  intense !  ...  Is  it 
Tuesday,  Columbine?  I'll  kiss  you  if  it's  Tues 
day.  (Curtains  begin  to  close  slowly.) 

COLUMBINE 

It  is  Wednesday,  if  you  must  know.  ...  Is 
this  my  artichoke,  or  yours  ? 

PIERROT 

Ah,  Columbine,  as  if  it  mattered !    Wednesday. 
.     .     Will  it  be  Tuesday,  then,  to-morrow, 
by  any  chance?     .     .     . 

[CURTAIN] 


COCAINE 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

BY  PENDLETON  KING 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  FRANK  SHAY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Reprinted  from  No.  5  of  "The  Provincetown  Plays"  published 
by  Frank  Shay,  by  special  permission  of  the  publisher. 

The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are 
strictly  reserved  by  The  Provincetown  Players.  Applications  for 
permission  to  produce  the  play  should  be  made  to  The  Province- 
town  Players,  133  Macdougal  St.,  New  York. 

COCAINE  was  first  produced  by  The  Provincetown  Players, 
under  the  direction  of  Margaret  Wycherly,  on  the  night  of  March 
9,  1917,  with  the  following  caste: 

JOE  Eugene  Lincoln 

NORA  Ida  Rauh 

Scene  designed  and  executed  by  Ira  Remsen  and  Carroll  Berry. 


PERSONS 

JOE 
NORA 


COCAINE 

The  action  takes  place  in  an  attic  bed  room  on 
Grand  Street,  between  Allen  and  the  Bowery, 
in  the  late  summer  of  1916,  and  occupies  the 
time  between  four  o'clock  a.  m.  and  daylight. 
The  ceiling  slopes  down  at  the  back  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  floor.  There  is  a  dormer 
window  in  a  recess  at  back.  Door  left  center, 
bed  at  right  of  window,  table  left,  bureau  down 
left,  trunk  down  right,  chair  at  foot  of  bed. 
The  room  is  in  terrible  disorder  and  confusion, 
faintly  seen  in  the  glare  from  open  window  as 
curtain  rises. 

Joe  is  discovered  lying  on  the  bed  asleep,  snoring 
gently,  dressed  in  undershirt  and  trousers.  He 
is  good  looking,  powerfully  built,  twenty-four 
years  old. 

Nora  comes  in  and  lights  a  candle  on  the  bureau. 
She  is  a  wistful-looking  girl  of  thirty. 

JOE 

Nora,  's  'at  you? 

NORA 

I  didn't  mean  to  wake  you  up.    Go  on  back  to 
sleep. 
JOE 

I  haven't  been  asleep.    What  time  is  it? 

NORA 

(takes  of  hat)     About  four  o'clock. 
73 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

JOE 

You're  pretty  late. 
NORA 

(takes  off  jacket)     Had  to  walk  from  uptown. 

JOE 

How  far  uptown? 

NORA 

O,  way  up  town.  I  let  a  crowd  shake  me  like 
a  fool.  (Sits  in  chair  at  foot  of  bed  and  fans 
herself)  And  didn't  have  sense  enough  to  get 
car  fare.  Whew!  You  don't  realize  how  hot 
you  are  till  you  sit  down. 

JOE 

Poor  kid. 
NORA 

You  must  have  had  the  gas  lighted  to  make  it 

as  hot  as  this  in  here.    Lord,  I'm  so  glad  to  get 

home. 
JOE  (gently) 

You  didn't  bring  in — nothing? 

NORA 

Not  a  cent,  Joe.  (Gets  up  and  goes  to  bureau) 
I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me. 
(Looks  in  glass)  It's  that  darn  fever  blister. 
If  I  had  only  had  sense  enough  to  get  some 
camphor  that  first  day. 
JOE 

But  it's  most  well  now.  Can't  hardly  notice  it 
any  more. 

NORA 

Of  course  it's  perfectly  well.  There  won't  be 
a  trace  of  it  to-morrow.  I  oughtn't  to  have 
tried  to  go  out  those  two  days  the  first  of  the 

74 


COCAINE 


week  when  it  was  so  bad.  Everybody  was 
afraid  of  me  and  it  made  me  feel  like  a  leper. 
I  lost  my  grip  in  some  way  and  now  I  can't  get 
it  back.  It  all  depends  on  yourself.  (Picks  up 
candle)  If  you're  sure  of  yourself  you  have 
luck;  if  you  aren't,  you  don't.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it.  (Crosses  with  candle,  which  she  puts 
down  on  trunk)  If  I'd  had  a  wee  bit  of  a  sniff 
to-night  I'd  have  got  some  money  out  of  that 
crowd.  (Sits  on  foot  of  the  bed)  But  drinks 
don't  brace  me  up  somehow. 
JOE 

Hum.     'sright. 

NORA 

Poor  old  boy.  Have  you  been  lying  here  all 
night  in  this  heat  waiting  for  me?  It's  hard 
,luck  on  you,  Joe.  Oh,  I  thought  I'd  go  crazy 
to-night!  My  nerves  are  just  all  to  pieces.  I 
did  think  I  was  going  to  get  some  money  this 
time. 

JOE 

Why  don't  you  take  your  clothes  off  and  come 
on  to  bed? 

NORA 

(gets  up  and  takes  a  packet  of  cigarettes  out  of 
her  jacket)  I  swiped  these  for  you,  anyway. 
Here.  (Throws  him  the  box.) 

JOE 

(catching  it)     Gee !    Ta  ! 

NORA 

Joe,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  uTa."  (Goes  up 
into  recess)  I  don't  know  why  I  hate  it  so. 
(She  begins  to  undress.) 

75 


THE  PRQVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

JOE 

All  right,  Missis.  (Gets  up  to  light  his  cigarette 
with  the  candle)  Common  stuff,  uhm? 

NORA 

(undressing)  No,  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  just 
nervous  and  irritable.  Don't  pay  any  attention 
to  anything  I  say.  If  I  don't  get  some  money 
to-morrow  I  just  don't  know  what  I'll  do.  It's 
terrible  to  be  so  dependent  on  anything  as  that. 

JOE 

(lies  down  again)     Four  days. 

NORA 

No,  to-night's  Saturday. 
JOE 

Well,  that's  four  days,  ain't  it?     We  finished 

up  that  last  deck  Tuesday  night. 
NORA 

That's  right.    I  wouldn't  have  believed  I  could 

go  so  long.    I  don't  see  how  you  stand  it,  Joe, 

all  night  like  this,  doing  nothing. 
JOE 

I  been  out.     Don't  worry  about  me.     I  can  git 

on  without  de  stuff — for  awhile. 

NORA 

(comes  down  in  kimono)  I  can't.  (Takes 
cigarette)  But  then  I've  been  using  it  so  much 
longer  than  you  have.  (Lights  cigarette  at  the 
candle.) 

JOE 

I  been  goin'  it  some  little  time — a  month  or  so 
before  we  took  up  together  last  summer. 
NORA 

To  think.    (Sits  on  bed)    Only  a  year.    I  won- 
76 


COCAINE 


der  what  would  have  become  of  you  if  I  hadn't 
found  you? 
JOE 

What  becomes  of  all  de  other  poor  bastards 
who  gets  knocked  put  and  can't  get  back  in  de 
ring?  I  don't  know. 

NORA 

That's  the  trouble  with  you  boys.  You  are 
brought  up  with  only  one  idea — to  fight — and 
if  anything  does  happen  to  you,  you're  not  fit 
to  do  anything  else.  You're  only  twenty-four, 
and  you're  done. 

JOE 

Be  twenty-four  in  October,  I  guess. 

NORA 

Lord,  it  makes  me  feel  so  old.  That's  how  you 
stand  the  strain  the  way  you  do.  You  are  as 
firm  and  strong  as  you  ever  were,  and  look  at 
me! 

JOE 

Well,  if  a  fellow  has  to  do  as  much  trainin'  as 

I  used  to,  he  more  or  less  keeps  in  condition,  I 

guess. 
NORA    , 

(lies  down  beside  him)    I  feel  so  old,  and  tired, 

and  discouraged,  Joe.     If  I  didn't  have  you  I 

don't  think  I'd  go  on  with  it. 
JOE 

(tightens  his  arm  about  her)     I'm  stickin'  to 

you,  see? 
NORA 

I  never  thought  of  your  leaving  me.    (She  puts 

her  arm  up  about  his  head  and  strokes  his  hair) 

77 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

I  love  you  too  much,  Joe.  I  love  you  more 
than  anybody  else  will  ever  love  you  if  you  live 
to  be  a  thousand  years  old. 

JOE 

I  don't  reckon  anybody'  d  love  me  much  if  I  was 
that  old. 
NORA  (laughs) 

I  should.  But  you're  only  a  baby  now.  A  little 
old  infant.  (She  snuggles  up  to  him  and  presses 
her  cheek  to  his)  Joe? 

JOE 

Urn? 

NORA 

(in  a  whisper)  My  darling.  (He  gathers  her 
closer.  Long  pause.) 


^ 

Tired,  kid? 

NORA 

No,  not  now.  I  get  strength  from  you.  You've 
got  plenty  of  strength  for  both  of  us,  haven't 
you  ?  Um  ? 

JOE 

It's  funny,  ain't  it,  for  a  girl  like  you  to  take  up 
wid  a  rough  guy  like  me,  dat  ain't  never  know'd 
nothin'  but  how  to  get  his  heart  put  on  the 
blink!  Dope  brings  funny  people  together. 

NORA 

Not  so  funny. 
JOE 

You  needn't  tell  me,  kid.  I  may  be  nothing  but 
a  prizefighter,  but  I  can  tell  a  lady  when  I  see 
one.  And,  besides,  you  won't  even  own  up  to 
it.  That's  a  sure  sign. 

78 


COCAINE 


NORA  (laughs) 

Not  a  very  fine  kind  of  a  lady.  I've  told  you 
all  about  myself.  I  did  work  on  the  Evening 
Sun,  and  before  that  I  used  to  live  on  a  farm  in 
Kentucky.  That's  all  there  is. 

JOE 

Well,  that's  what  you  say.     I  don't  want  you 
to  tell  me  nothing  you  don't  want  to.     (Moves 
his  position  slightly)    Are  you  all  right? 
NORA 
Yes. 

JOE 

I  got  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about. 
We're  up  against  it. 

NORA 

I  know  we  are.  And  yet  I  can  lie  here  like  this 
and  it  doesn't  seem  possible  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  trouble  in  the  world.  It  is  so  serene 
to  lie  still,  and  just  stroke  your  hair.  I  don't 
want  ever  to  move  again.  I  can  feel  your  heart 
beating.  Do  you  feel  how  much  faster  mine  is 
going  than  yours? 

JOE 

Yeah.     (The  sound  of  the  Elevated  is  heard.) 

NORA 

The  Elevated  sounds  like  wind.  Like  a  spirit 
that  can't  rest.  The  spirit  of  the  city,  that  goes 
on  and  on  day  and  night  and  never  stops  and 
never  will  stop,  no  matter  what  becomes  of  you 
and  me.  But  when  I  am  lying  close  to  you  like 
this,  touching  you,  there's  a  sort  of  electric  cur 
rent  that  radiates  from  you  all  over  because 

79 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

you're  so  alive.     What  was  I  going  to  say? 
What  was  I  talking  about? 
JOE 

You  was  talking  about  the  El. 

NORA 

Yes.  I  was  going  to  say  while  I  am  lying  close 
to  you  like  this  it  all  seems  so  far  away,  doesn't 
it?  It  is  like  lying  snug  in  bed  and  listening  to 
the  sea.  There  may  be  death  and  storms  and 
shipwrecks  and  things  out  there,  but  they're  far 
away.  They  can  never  touch  us. 
JOE 

I  wisht  we  could  get  a  good  old  sniff,  and  for 
get  our  troubles  right. 

NORA 

Poor  old  Joe.  (Raises  up  and  sits  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  again)  I  declare  I  thought  I  would 
go  crazy  to-night;  I  haven't  got  a  nerve  left  in 
my  body.  I  wanted  to  know  what  you  were 
doing.  I  thought  all  sorts  of  fool  things.  I 
could  picture  you  getting  desperate  and  break 
ing  in  somewhere  and  getting  locked  up,  and 
I  don't  know  what. 

JOE 

I  could  have  got  some  stuff  to-night,  at  that. 

NORA 

What  do  you  mean  ?    How  ?    Who  ? 
JOE 

The  landlady.  She  was  up  here  talking  to  me 
about  it. 

NORA 

When  she  knows  how  broke  we  arc  ?  We  owe 
her  two  weeks'  rent. 

80 


COCAINE 


JOE 

No,  I  guess  she  would  have  give  me  some. 

NORA 

How  do  you  mean,  Joe? 

JOE 

You  know. 

NORA 

Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  woman  has  been 
up  here  after  you  again?  (Her  eyes  narrow) 
I  knew  something  was  the  matter.  Did  you — 
What  did  you  tell  her  ? 

JOE 

Told  her  to  get  to  hell  out  of  here.  What  do 
you  think  I  told  her?  I  said  I  was  off  de  stuff. 

NORA 

(buries  her  head  in  his  shoulder)     O,  Joe. 

JOE 

Well,  I  didn't  want  it  so  bad,  then.  She  come 
up  here  when  she  heard  me  come  in,  about 
twelve  o'clock,  and  put  it  up  to  me. 

NORA  (desperate) 

If  we  had  any  other  place  on  earth  we  could 
go,  I  would  have  got  out  of  this  house  the  night 
you  told  me  she  first  came  up  here  and  bothered 
you.  But  we  couldn't  get  another  place.  She'd 
hold  our  things  until  we  paid  her.  And  I  haven't 
got  a  dollar  to  deposit  on  a  room.  I  suppose 
she  knows  all  that. 

JOE 

That's  what  I  got  to  talk  to  you  about.  She's 
going  to  kick  us  out. 

NORA 

Kick  us  out? 

81 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

JOE 

That's  what  she  says.     Unless — 

NORA 

Unless  what? 

JOE 

Well — you  know — I  been  thinking  pretty  hard 
and  figurin'  on  puttin'  it  up  to  you,  if  you  think 
it's  worth  while — just  to  keep  the  room  on  and 
have  a  place  to  sleep.  You  see — 

NORA 

What  are  you  talking  about? 
JOE 

Well,  I  think  the  old  lady's  reasonable.  She 
come  up  here  and  made  a  big  fuss  over  me  and 
said  she  was  gone  on  me  and  all  that  stuff,  and 
I  was  staying  on  in  her  house  and  not  paying 
no  rent  and  everything,  and — if  I  was  too  good 
for  her  I'd  have  to  get  out  of  her  house,  that's 
all.  That  was  after  she  offered  me  the  dope. 
NORA 

Joe,  am  I  mad  or  what  are  you  talking  about? 

JOE 

Well— 

NORA 

Never  let  me  hear  that  again.     Do  you  think 
I'd  let  you — 
JOE 

Well,  I  let  you,  don't  I  ? 

NORA 

That's  altogether  a  different  matter.  Don't 
ever  let  me  hear  that  again,  do  you  understand? 
I  can't  argue  about  it.  (Gets  up  and  crosses 
to  bureau)  God,  it's  hot  in  here ! 

82 


COCAINE 


JOE 

(swings  his  feet  out  and  sits  on  the  side  of  the 
bed.  Kindly)  Now  look  here,  kid.  (Stands 
a  moment  and  goes  over  to  her)  I  got  to  live, 
ain't  I?  You  are  the  swellest  little  girl  any 
fellow  ever  had  and  all  that,  and  I'm  awful 
fond  of  you,  but  we  got  to  live.  We  got  to  do 
something.  We  got  to  get  some  money  some 
way.  If  we  can't  get  on — the  way  we  been 
gettin'  on — then  I  got  to  shift  for  myself,  see? 
(Takes  her  by  the  shoulders)  I'm  putting  it 
up  to  you  square,  because  I'm  goin'  to  be  straight 
with  you. 

NORA 

Of  course  we've  got  to  do  something.  I'll  do 
something.  I'll  get  some  money.  You  don't 
understand  what  you  are  saying.  If  it  were  the 
last  night  we'd  ever  spend  under  a  roof  it 
wouldn't  alter  the  question. 

JOE 

(turns  back  to  the  bed)  By  God,  it  looks  like 
it  is  the  last  night,  with  the  luck  you're  having. 
(He  sits  and  leans  his  chin  on  his  right  hand, 
gazing  at  the  candle)  If  I  was  able  to  do  any 
kind  of  work  it'd  be  different.  But  de  stuff's 
got  me,  I  guess.  I  couldn't  no  more  stick  to 
any  kind  of  a  job  than  I  could  fly.  You  reckon 
if  I  was  able  to  get  back  in  the  ring  I'd  have 
you  working?  But  we're  up  against  it,  that's 
all.  As  long  as  you  can  bring  in  the  money — 
all  right.  But  you  ain't  having  any  luck, 
and  I  just  got  to  do  it,  that's  all.  If  I'm 
willing  for  you  to  go  out  every  night,  I  don't 

•83 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

see  why  you  kick  on  one  old  measly  land 
lady. 

NORA 

But,  Joe,  you  don't  understand.  (Crosses  to 
bed)  Listen  to  me.  (Sits  beside  him)  You 
don't  love  me  the  way  I  do  you.  It  isn't  your 
fault.  It's  the  way  you're  made.  I  can — go 
out,  as  you  call  it — It's  a  sort  of  sacrifice  to 
you,  a  sort  of  way  of  showing  how  much  I 
love  you.  It  doesn't  matter  about  me.  You 
are  the  clean  part  of  me.  You  are  part  I  live 
for.  And  you  are  sacred,  do  you  understand? 
Clean. 

JOE 

(Still  gazing  at  candle)  Sure,  I  get  you.  (Nora 
slips  down  on  one  knee  and  buries  her  face 
against  his  arm)  And  I've  always  been  straight 
with  you.  'I  think  a  whole  lot  more  of  you 
than  you  think. 

NORA 

Go  on.  Say  you  love  me.  I  love  to  hear  you 
say  it. 

JOE 

(puts  his  left  arm  about  her)  I  love  you  all 
right.  And  I'll  stick  to  you.  But  we  got  to 
live,  ain't  we?  We  got  to  get  some  money 
some  way.  And  if  you  can't  get  it,  I  got  to. 
That's  if  we're  going  to  stick  together. 

NORA 

No,  you  haven't,  Joe.  I'd  rather  be  dead. 
(Raises  up)  I'll  starve  to  death  before  I'll  see 
you  do  that,  and  let  you  starve  to  death.  (Gets 
up)  The  horrible  old  slut.  I  think  I'll  kill 

84 


COCAINE 


her.     (Goes  up  into  alcove  and  looks  out  of 

window.) 
JOE 

O,  we  can  get  out  of  here  if  you  want  to.     It 

don't  have  to  be  her.    There's  more'n  one  way 

of  pickin'  up  money  round  this  town. 
NORA 

(turns  toward  him)     What  do  you  mean? 
JOE 

I  guess  you  must  know.    It's  the  only  way  I  see. 

I  ain't  got  nothing  but  my  looks. 

NORA 

(turns  back  to  window)     Joe,  don't  talk  like 
that,  please. 
JOE  (kindly) 

We  got  to,  kid.  We're  up  against  it.  I'm  go 
ing  to  be  fair  with  you ;  that  thing  you  got  on 
your  mouth  ain't  going  to  get  well  so  as  you 
can't  see  it  for  two  or  three  days  yet.  We  get 
kicked  out  of  here  to-day.  What  the  hell  can 
we  do?  Sleep  in  the  park?  I  guess  not.  Not 
while  I  got  a  way  to  make  easy  money.  Why, 
kid,  I  wisht  you'd  see  the  number  of  'em  tries 
to  speak  to  me  every  time  I  go  out.  It's  easy, 
I  tell  you.  And  there's  good  money  in  it.  I 
don't  like  to  talk  about  it — 'specially  with  you 
— but  we  got  to — if  we're  going  to  stick  to 
gether.  We  can  get  a  nice  room  somewheres 
and  keep  a  little  stuff  on  hand  all  the  time.  I 
ain't  going  to  leave  you.  But  I  gotta  have  de 
stuff,  that's  all.  (Lies  down  on  the  bed  and 
turns  toward  the  wall)  I've  gone  without  it 
four  days  now. 

85 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


NORA 

(comes  down  and  crosses  to  trunk)  You  are  a 
strange  boy.  (Sits  on  end  of  trunk  facing  him) 
Can't  you  see  that  you  are  the  only  thing  I've 
got  left  in  the  world? 

JOE 

But  I  ain't  leaving  you,  I  tell  you. 

NORA 

Don't  you  understand  that  I  found  you  when 
you  were  down  and  out — done  for?  That  you 
belong  to  me?  I  saved  you  from  this  very 
thing,  I  suppose,  a  year  ago.  Don't  you  see, 
darling  ? 

JOE 

(turns  on  his  back)  But  I'm  not —  Gee,  Nora, 
can't  you  listen  to  me?  I  don't  want  to  do  it, 
kid,  but  we  got  to,  to  live. 

NORA 

But  don't  you  understand  that  I  wouldn't  touch 
you  with  a  ten-foot  pole  afterwards?     Don't 
you  see  that? 
JOE 

(turning  back  in  a  huff)  Of  course,  if  you  feel 
that  way  about  it,  we  can  bust  up,  's  far  as  that 
goes.  If  you  don't  think  no  more  about  me 
than  that. 

NORA 

(stands  up  against  the  wall.     Right)     Don't, 

Joe. 
JOE 

(sits  up  in  bed)    I've  always  been  straight  with 
you.     I've  treated  you  right  all  the  way,  and 
I'm  trying  to  stick  by  you.     But  of  course,  if 
86 


COCAINE 


that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it,  all  right.  I 
got  to  live,  ain't  I  ? 

NORA 

No. 

JOE 

What  do  you  mean  by  no? 
NORA 

I  don't  see  any  reason  why  we  should  live. 

JOE 

Well,  I'm  going  to  live. 

NORA 

(sits  down  on  bed  and  tries  to  turn  him  towards 
her)  Joe,  my  darling,  listen  to  me.  You've 
been  a  wonderful  boy,  and  I  love  you  as  very 
few  people  have  ever  been  loved  in  this  world. 
Because  I  had  lost  everything,  you  see,  when 
I  found  you,  everything.  I  had  thrown  every 
thing  away.  And  you've  had  to  be  the  whole 
world  for  me  since.  The  whole  world,  you  see. 
There  isn't  anything  else.  When  the  dope  got 
me  I  just  went  down  because  I  didn't  care  about 
anything.  I  gave  up  my  job  and  just  let  myself 
slide.  I  intended  to  kill  myself  when  my  money 
gave  out,  and  I  didn't  even  care  how  much  I 
had  left.  Then  I  found  you  that  night  at 
Mitchell's  place. 

JOE 

(turns  on  his  back)     I  remember. 
NORA 

(Puts  her  head  down  on  his  chest)  You  can't 
remember  much.  I  can't  bear  to  think  even 
now  how  you  were  beat  up.  But  you  were  so 
full  of  it  you  didn't  know  your  arm  was  broken. 


THE  PROVINCETQWN  PLAYS 

JOE 

That's  right.  I  think  it  was  broke  about  two 
days  before  that.  I  remember  when  it  went. 

NORA 

And  since  then,  Joe,  we've  had  a  wonderful 
time.  Do  you  remember  when  we  used  to  have 
to  sleep  under  the  Bridge?  I  love  that  old 
Bridge  now  because  it's  associated  in  my  mind 
with  you. 

JOE 

We  had  a  good  time,vall  right. 
NORA  (straightens  up) 

"But  now  the  white  sails  of  our  ship  are  furled, 

And  spent  the  lading  of  our  argosy." 
We've  come  to  the  end  of  our  tether,  Joe. 

JOE 

Um. 

NORA 

What  do  you  say  we  don't  go  on  with  it? 
JOE 

What  do  you  mean  don't  go  on  with  it? 
NORA 

Turn  on  the  gas. 

JOE 

(sit  sup)   Nix!  What  a  re  you  gettin'  at?   (Lies 
down)     Not  for  mine. 
NORA 

Joe,  we've  had  such  a  wonderful  time.  We've 
known  everything  there  is  to  know  in  the  world 
worth  knowing.  Don't  let's  go  down  hill. 
We've  reached  the  top.  Let's  let  this  be  the 
end.  I  can't  keep  you  any  longer  and  have  got 
to  let  you  go.  And  I  won't  do  it,  that's  all. 
88 


COCAINE 


JOE 

(sits  up  and  props  himself  against  the  head  of 
the  bed  incredulously)  You  must  be  kiddin'. 
Aw,  come  on. 

NORA  (quietly) 

I  never  was  more  serious  in  my  life.  I  can't 
go  on  with  it,  and  I  won't  leave  you  behind  to 
live  without  me.  It's  you  that  I  love — the  little 
strange  spirit  that  makes  you  you,  and  different 
to  everybody  else  that  ever  lived.  If  you  go 
on  you  are  going  to  destroy  that.  Then  you 
won't  be  you,  and  I  won't  love  you  any  more. 
Think!  This  may  be  the  last  night  we'll  ever 
spend  together — the  last  chance  we'll  have. 
Let's  turn  it  on  now.  No  telling  (she -turns 
front)  what'll  happen  in  the  daylight  to-mor 
row.  I  can't  wait  to  face  it. 

JOE 

I  don't  want  to,  kid,  It  ain't  right  to  kill  your 
self. 

NORA 

Are  you  afraid  to  die? 

JOE 

Sure  I'm  not  afraid  to  die. 

NORA 

What  have  you  got  to  live  for? 

JOE 

Well,  a  lot  of  things,  I  guess. 

NORA 

Joe,  you've  slipped.  You've  slipped  away  fur 
ther  than  I  thought.  The  stuff's  got  you  sure 
enough.  You've  slipped  further  than  I  have. 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


JOE 

I  guess  not.    I'm  not  so  bad  oft  as  that. 

NORA  (slightly  hysterical) 

You're  pretty  bad  off,  Joe.  Don't  you  see  that 
your  life  is  finished.  You  are  nothing.  You 
are  less  than  nothing.  What  you  really  are  is 
the  lowest  thing  that  can  be  on  earth,  and  here 
you  talk  calmly  about — something  even  worse. 
There's  no  reason  for  you  to  go  on  living — ex 
cept  your  fear  of  death. 

JOE 

I'm  not  afraid  of  dying,  I  tell  you. 

NORA  (rising) 

Well,  let  me  turn  on  the  gas,  then.  I'm  not 
afraid.  Look  at  me.  Think  of  the  trouble  it 
takes  to  live.  Think  of  the  effort  to  keep  your 
self  going  on  and  on,  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  And 
when  you  lose  me  you'll  just  slip  and  slip.  And 
you've  got  to  die  in  the  end  anyhow.  And 
when  you're  dead  it  won't  make  any  difference 
to  you  how  long  you  lived.  It  will  be  just  as 
if  you'd  never  been  born. 

JOE 

(sits  up  and  follows  her  with  his  eyes)     I  don't 

get  you. 
NORA 

O,  I  just  can't  face  the  daylight  again,  Joe.  I'm 
too  tired.  Aren't  you  tired?  What  will  be 
come  of  you  without  me  to  take  care  of  you? 
(She  is  edging  towards  the  gas  jet  in  the  al 
cove.) 
JOE 

I  don't  know. 

90 


COCAINE 


NORA 

Let's  turn  on  the  gas.  Then  we  won't  have  to 
wake  up  in  the  morning  and  be  bothered.  And 
you  can't  tell — maybe —  But  I  believe  you're 
scared. 

JOE 

(lies  down  and  turns  face  to  the  wall  petulantly) 
Aw,  turn  on  your  God-damned  gas.  I'll  show 
you  whether  I'm  scared. 

NORA 

(in  an  excited  whisper)  O,  Joe ! 
(She  closes  the  window  and  hangs  an  old  skirt 
over  it,  turns  on  the  gas  jet  and  the  gas  stove 
on  the  table,  then  comes  down  on  tiptoe,  trem 
bling,  and  blows  out  the  candle  on  the  trunk. 
The  stage  is  completely  dark.) 

JOE 

Did  you  turn  it  on  ? 

NORA 

(gets  back  into  the  bed)     Yes;  the  stove,  too. 

JOE 

How  long  will  it  take  ? 

NORA 

Not  long,  I  think.  I  don't  know.  Don't  let's 
talk  about  it.  Joe,  do  you  think  I've  got  the 
right  to  take  you  with  me? 

JOE 

With  you?     Where? 

NORA 

Now — like  this.  But  I  couldn't  bear  for  any 
body  else  to  have  you,  Joe. 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

JOE 

Gee,  you're  tremblin'.     I  believe  you're  scared 

now. 
NORA 

I'm  not  scared.    I'm  just  happy. 
JOE 

Happy? 
NORA 

I  thought  I'd  lost  you,  Joe. 
JOE 

Um.     (Very  long  pause)    This  is  a  tough  thing 

to  do,  all  right,  kid.    You  reckon  they'll  put  it 

in  the  papers? 

NORA 

I  expect  so. 

JOE 

Will  they  put  in  much?    They'll  be  sure  to  find 
out  who  we  was.     You  got  letters  and  stuff  in 
the  trunk. 
NORA 

We  weren't  anybody  much.     I  expect  they've 
forgotten  about  us. 

JOE 

Aw,  they  got  to  put  it  in  the  papers. 

NORA 

They'll  put  in  something.     Please  don't  let's 
.  talk  about  it.    Joe? 

JOE 

Um? 

NORA 

(in  a  whisper)     My  darling! 
(Long  pause.) 

92 


COCAINE 


JOE 

(with  a  tremor  in  his  voice)  I  don't  smell  no 
gas. 

NORA 

It  hasn't  had  time  yet.  Maybe  we  won't  smell 
it. 

JOE 

Gee,  we  got  to  smell  it.  ( The  bed  creaks)  I 
don't  smell  nothing  way  down  here. 

NORA 

Just  wait  and  you  will.  It's  only  been  on  a 
minute.  O,  Joe,  come  on  back  here.  We've 
only  got  such  a  little  while. 

JOE 

I'm  going  to  see  what's  the  matter.  Gimme  a 
match.  ( The  bed  creaks  as  he  gets  out.) 

NORA 

For  heaven's  sake,  don't  strike  a  match !  Might 
be  an  explosion! 

JOE 

It  can't  blow  up  if  you  can't  smell  it.  (He  finds 
matches  on  the  trunk  and  crosses  to  center 
stage)  I  can  smell  it  over  here.  (Strikes  a 
match  to  the  gas  burner,  which  lights  in  a  fee 
ble  blue  flame)  Gee,  the  meter's  run  out  on  us ! 

NORA 

(sits  up  in  bed)  The  meter  ?  But  it  can't  have 
run  out.  (A  wave  of  terror  comes  over  her) 
Have  you  been  using  the  gas  nights  ? 

JOE 

Not  but  very  little. 

93 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


NORA 

But  that's  ridiculous.  I  haven't  got  a  quarter 
to  put  in  it.  What  can  we  do  ? 

JOE 

Nothin' — 'less  we  had  a  quarter. 

NORA  (laughs) 

But  that's  ridiculous.  We've  got  to  do  some 
thing. 

JOE 

Naw,  I  guess  not. 
NORA 

But,  Joe—!!! 

JOE 

(with  a  note  of  relief  in  his  voice)  Naw,  I 
guess  it  wasn't  meant  for  us  to  kick  out  to-night, 
kid.  (Gently)  Let's  get  the  window  open. 
(He  takes  down  the  old  skirt  and  opens  the 
window.  The  dawn  has  come  up  outside)  Gee, 
it's  daylight. 

[CURTAIN] 


94 


NIGHT 

A  DRAMA 

BY  JAMES  OPPENHEIM 


Copyright,  1918, 
BY  EGMONT  ARENS 

All  Rights  Reserved 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are 
strictly  reserved  by  the  author.  Applications  for  permission  to 
produce  the  play  should  be  made  to  The  Provincetown  Players, 
139  Macdougal  St.,  New  York. 

Reprinted  from  No.  2  of  "The  Flying  Stag  Plays,"  published 
by  Egmont  Arens,  27  West  Eighth  St.,  New  York,  from  whom  the 
acting  edition  may  be  obtained. 


NIGHT  was  first  produced  by  the  Provincetown 
Players  on  November  2,  1917,  with  the  following 
cast; 

THE  SCIENTIST,  Justus  Sheffield 
THE  POET,  George  Cram  Cook 
THE  PRIEST,  Hutchinson  Collins 
THE  MAN,  Rollo  Peters 
THE  WOMAN,  Ida  Rauh 

The  scene  and  method  of  playing,  suggested  by 
Rollo  Peters.  The  actors  appear  in  silhouette 
before  a  lighted  blue  screen  upon  a  simple  mound 
that  suggests  a  hilltop. 


NIGHT 

A  Priest,  A  Poet,  A  Scientist. 
Hilltop,  in  October;  the  stars  shining. 

(The  Priest  kneels;  the  Scientist  looks  at  the 
heavens  through  a  telescope;  the  Poet  writes 
in  a  little  note-book.) 

THE    PRIEST 

When  I  consider  Thy  heavens,  the  work  of  Thy 
fingers,  the  moon  and  the  stars,  which 
Thou  hast  ordained; 

What  is  man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him, 
And  the  son  of  man,  that  Thou  visitest  him? 

THE    SCIENTIST 

Algol  which  is  dim,  becomes  again  a  star  of 

the  second  magnitude. 
THE   POET 

My  beloved  is  far  from  this  hilltop,  where  the 

firs  breathe  heavily,  and  the  needles  fall; 
But  from  the  middle  of  the  sea 
She,  too,  gazes  on  the  lustrous  stars  of  calm 

October,  and  in  her  heart 
She  stands  with  me  beneath  these  heavens — 

daintily  blows 
Breath  of  the   sighing  pines,    and   from   the 

loaded    and    bowed-down    orchards    and 

from  the  fields 
With  smokes  of  the  valley,  peace  steps  up  on 

this  hill. 

97 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE    PRIEST 

Thou  art  the  Shepherd  that  strides  down  the 
Milky  Way; 

Thou  art  the  Lord,  our  God:  glorified  be  Thy 
name  and  Thy  works. 

I  see  Thee  with  Thy  staff  driving  the  star- 
sheep  to  the  fold  of  dawn. 

THE    SCIENTIST 

The  Spiral  Nebula  in  Ursa  Major,  that  forever 

turns 
Slowly   like    a    flaming   pin-wheel.  .  .thus    are 

worlds  born; 
Thus  was  the  sun  and  all  the  planets  a  handful 

a  million  years  ago. 

THE    POET 

She  is  far  from  me.  .  .but  in  the  cradle  of  the 

sea 
Sleepless   she   rocks,   calling  her  beloved:   he 

heeds  her  call : 
On  this  hilltop  he  picks  the  North  Star  for  his 

beacon.  .  . 
For  by  that  star  the  sailors  steer,  and  beneath 

that  star 
She  and  I  are  one  in  the  gaze  of  the  heavens. 

THE    PRIEST 

(Slowly  rising  and  turning  to  the  others.) 
Let  us  glorify  the  Creator  of  this  magnificence 

of  infinite  Night, 

His  footstool  is  the  Earth,  and  we  are  but  the 
sheep  of  this  Shepherd. 

THE    SCIENTIST 

Thus  shall  we  only  glorify  ourselves, 


NIGHT 


That  of  this  energy  that  rolls  and  drives  in 
suns  and  planets 

Are  but  the  split-off  forces  with  cunning  brains, 

And  questioning  consciousness.  .  .Pray  if  you 
must — 

Only  your  own  ears  hear  you,  and  only  the 
heart  in  your  breast 

Responds  to  the  grandiose  emotion.  .  .See  yon 
der  star? 

That  is  the  great  Aldebaron,  great  in  the  night, 

Needing  a  whole  sky,  as  a  vat  and  a  reservoir, 
which  he  fills  with  his  flame.  .  . 

But  no  astronomer  with  his  eye  to  his  lenses 

Has  seen  ears  on  the  monster. 

THE    PRIEST 

Thou  that  hast  never  seen  an  atom,  nor  the 

ether  thou  pratest  of, 
Thou  that  hast  never  seen  the  consciousness  of 

man, 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  invisible  arms  about 

this  sky, 
And  the  Father  that  leans  above  us? 

THE    POET 

We  need  know  nothing  of  any  Father 

When  the  grasses  themselves,  withering  in  Oc 
tober,  stand  up  and  sing  their  own  dirges 
in  the  great  west  wind, 

And  every  pine  is  like  a  winter  lodging  house 
where  the  needles  may  remember  the 
greenness  of  the  world, 

And  the  great  shadow  is  jagged  at  its  top  with 
stars, 

99 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

And  the  heart  of  man  is  as  a  wanderer  looking 

for  the  light  in  a  window, 
And  the  kiss  and  warm  joy  of  his  beloved. 

THE    PRIEST 

Man  of  Song  and  Man  of  Science, 

Truly  you  are  as  people  on  the  outside  of  a 

house, 
And  one  of  you  only  sees  that  it  is  made  of 

stone,  and  its  windows  of  glass,  and  that 

fire  burns  in  the  hearth, 
And  the  other  of  you  sees  that  the  house  is 

beautiful  and  very  human, 
But  I  have  gone  inside  the  house, 
And  I  live  with  the  host  in  that  house 
And  have  broken  bread  with  him,  and  drunk 

his  wine, 
And  seen  the  transfiguration  that  love  and  awe 

make  in  the  brain.  .  . 
For  that  house  is  the  world,  and  the  Lord  is 

my  host  and  my  father: 
It  is  my  father's  house. 

THE    SCIENTIST 

He  that  has  gone  mad  and  insane  may  call  him 
self  a  king, 

And  behold  himself  in  a  king's  palace,  with 
feasting,  and  dancing  women,  and  with 
captains, 

And  none  can  convince  him  that  he  is  mad, 

Slave  of  hallucination .  . . 

We  that  weigh  the  atom  and  weigh  a  world  in 
the  night,  and  we 

Who  probe  down  into  the  brain,  and  see  how 
desire  discolors  reality, 
100 


NIGHT 


And  we  that  see  how  chemical  energy  changes 
and  transforms  the  molecule, 

So  that  one  thing  and  another  changes  and  so 
man  arises — 

With  neither  microscope,  nor  telescope,  nor 
spectroscope,  nor  finest  violet  ray 

Have  we  found  any  Father  lurking  in  the  in 
tricate  unreasonable  drive  of  things 

And  the  strange  chances  of  nature. 

THE    POET 

O  Priest,  is  it  not  enough  that  the  world  and 
a  Woman  are  very  beautiful, 

And  that  the  works  and  tragic  lives  of  men  are 
terribly  glorious? 

There  is  a  dance  of  miracles,  of  miracles  hold 
ing  hands  in  a  chain  around  the  Earth  and 
out  through  space  to  the  moon,  and  to  the 
stars,  and  beyond  the  stars, 

And  to  behold  this  dance  is  enough ; 

So  much  laughter,  and  secret  looking,  and 
glimpses  of  wonder,  and  dreams  of  ter 
ror.  .  . 

It  is  enough!   It  is  enough! 

THE    PRIEST 

Enough?    I  see  what  is  enough! 

Machinery  is  enough  for  a  Scientist, 

And  Beauty  is  enough  for  a  Poet; 

But  in  the  hearts  of  men  and  women,  and  in 
the  thirsty  hearts  of  little  children 

There  is  a  hunger,  and  there  is  an  unappeas 
able  longing, 

For  a  Father  and  for  the  love  of  a  Father.  .  . 

For  the  root  of  a  soul  is  mystery, 
101 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

And  the  Night  is  mystery, 

And  in  that  mystery  men  would  open  inward 

into  Eternity, 
And  know  love,  the  Lord. 
Blessed  be  his  works,  and  his  angels,  and  his 

sons  crowned  with  his  glory! 
(A  pause.     The  Woman  with  a  burden  in  her 
arms  comes  in  slowly.) 

THE    WOMAN 

Who  has  the  secret  of  life  among  you? 

THE    PRIEST 

I,  woman,  have  that  secret: 
I  have  learned  it  from  the  book  of  the  revela 
tions  of  God, 

And  I  have  learned  it  from  life,  bitterly, 
And  from  my  heart,  holily. 

THE    SCIENTIST 

Be  not  deceived,  woman: 

There  is  only  one  book  of  reality — the  book  of 
Nature. 

THE   WOMAN 

Who  has  read  in  that  book? 

THE    SCIENTIST 

I  have  read  a  little : 
No  man  has  read  much. 

THE   POET 

They  lead  you  nowhere,  woman; 

You  are  the  secret  of  life,  and  your  glory  is  in 

seeking  the  secret, 
But  finding  it  never. 
THE   WOMAN 

I    have    climbed    this    hill    and    found    three 
watchers  of  the  night — 
1 02 


NIGHT 


Three   star-gazers  perched   above  the   placid 

October  harvests 
Where  they  lie  golden  and  crimson  along  the 

valley,  and  high  on  the  slopes 
The  scarlet  maples  flame — 
You  are  a  priest:  and  you  speak  of  God. 
I  am  nothing  but  need:  for  I  carry  a  burden 

that  is   heavier  than   the   Earth,    and   is 

heavier 

Than  the  flesh  of  woman  can  bear :  I  break 
Down  under  it:  and  a  hard  hate 
Against  my  birth  is  steel  in  my  heart — I  curse 
God,  if  there  be  a  God — 
Love,  if  there  ever  was  love — 
Life,  that  is  empty  ravings, 
And  the  hour  when  I  was  born. 

THE    PRIEST 

Peace !    Peace !    Thou  standest  in  the  presence 

of  the  Night 
Shadowy    with    grace     and    benediction — the 

mercy 
Of  the  Lord  falls  like  the  dew  on  the  soft  brow 

of  thy  affliction  I 

THE  POET  (softly) 

She  is  very  beautiful  and  dark  with  her  stern 

cursing, 

Standing  there  like  an  enemy  of  great  Jehovah, 
A  demon-woman  satanic — she  is  very  beautiful, 
With  her  arms  full  of  her  burden,  and  the  stars 
Seeming  to  retreat  before  her. 

THE    SCIENTIST 

What  burden  is  that  you  carry? 
103 


THE  PRQVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE   WOMAN 

That  which  is  worth  nothing, 

And  worth  more  than  these  stars  you  gaze  at. 

THE    PRIEST 

Put  thy  burden  upon  the  Lord,  and  thy  trust 
in  His  loving  kindness. 

THE   WOMAN 

I  will  not  part  with  my  burden,  though  it  is 
worth  nothing.  .  . 

For  what  are  a  few  pounds  of  dead  flesh  worth 

when  the  life  has  left  it? 
THE    PRIEST 

Then  you  carry  the  dead  at  your  breast? 
THE   WOMAN 

I  carry  the  dead. .  . 
THE    PRIEST 

Flesh  of  your  flesh  and  bone  of  your  bone.  .  . 
THE   WOMAN 

My    breasts    are    still    heavy    with    unsucked 

milk.  .  . 
THE    PRIEST 

Your  child  has  died.  .  . 
THE   WOMAN 

My  baby  is  dead .  .  . 
THE    PRIEST 

The  Lord  giveth,  the  Lord  taketh  away; 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord. 
THE   WOMAN 

Nine  long  months 

I  ripened  with  the  human  seed,  and  like  a  goodly 
tree  that  is  green 

Stooped  with  sheltering  boughs  above  the  swell 
ing  fruit.  .  . 

104 


NIGHT 


Song  rang  sweetly  in  my  blood.  .  . 

I    tasted   the   silent   life   as   a   spring   hillside 

where  the  furrows  are  run 
So  holds  its  bated  breath  against  the  pressing 

of  the  grass-blades 
That  birds  coming  that  way  catch  the  held- 

down  glory  under  the  furrows 
And  scatter  ecstatic  golden  notes  in  the  morn- 

^ing  light.  .  . 
Until  the  trumpets  blasted,  as  if  the  opening 

heavens  of  a  sunrise 
Were  battalions  of  bright  trumpeters  blowing 

news  of  dawn .  .  . 
Sank  I  then  into  darkness, 
Sank  I  then  into  terror, 
Till  I  was  healed  of  pain  by  the  new-born,  my 

child... 

And  now,  behold  in  my  arms 
The  life  of  my  life : 
All  that  I  was  went  out  in  him:  my  life  was 

now  outside  me. 

THE    PRIEST 

Unto  thee  a  son  was  born ! 

THE   WOMAN 

I  ran  to  tend  him  with  glad   feet,   and  with 

laughter.  .  . 

For  my  life  was  now  outside  of  me, 
And  I  was  seeking  my  life. 

THE    PRIEST 

You  praised  the  Lord? 

THE   WOMAN 

I  loved  my  child .  .  . 

105 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE   PRIEST 

And  God  forgotten? 

THE   WOMAN 

That  child  was  holy.  .  . 

THE    PRIEST 

He  was  but  flesh.  .  . 

THE    WOMAN 

Just  so  was  Christ.  .  . 

THE    PRIEST 

A  Son  of  God.  .  . 

THE    WOMAN 

My  child  was  such .  .  . 

THE    PRIEST 

So  in  the  corrupt  new  generations  of  men 
They  forget  God,  and  love  but  the  flesh, 
And  the  corruptible  flesh  decays  after  its  kind 
And  in  their  bereavement  they  have  nothing 

.  .  .  then  in  their  sorrow 
They  curse  the  true  and  the  good. 

THE   WOMAN 

The  flesh,  you  say?     Here  is  the  flesh: 

But  was  it  the  flesh  when  his  blue  eyes  opened 

and  gazed  with  great  hunger, 
Was  it  the   flesh  that  wailed,   the   flesh  that 

warmed  against  my  naked  breasts,  the  flesh 
That  went  a  secret  way,  and  I  after,  I  after, 

seeking  through  embraces 
To  catch  my  son  back,  hold  him.  .  .but,   oh, 

he  was  gone, 
He  was  gone,  leaving  this.     Priest,  is  this  all 

you  have  for  the  bereaved? 
THE  PRIEST 

That  which  is  gone  is  now  with  God. 
106 


NIGHT 


THE   WOMAN 

/  was  his  God,  for  to  me  the  beautiful  bright 
life  raised  its  hands, 

Suppliant,  full  of  faith . . . 

He  wailed  for  enfolding  love :  I  gave  it 

For  daily  bread :  I  gave  it 

For  healing  and  shelter :  I  gave  it. 

Out  of  me  he  came,  but  away  from  me  he  has 
gone, 

And  if  he  has  found  out  some  other  mother, 

I  curse  her  in  my  jealousy! 
THE    PRIEST 

So  you  blaspheme  the  holiness  of  the  Omnipo 
tent! 
THE   WOMAN 

So  I  curse  the  thief  who  stole  my  treasure  away. 
THE    PRIEST 

Alas !     Who  may  speak  to  a  sacrilegious  gen 
eration? 

THE    WOMAN 

Speak  if  you  can,  and  tell  me  in  a  few  words 
What  is  the  secret  of  life  ? 

THE    PRIEST 

Life  is  a  mysterious  preparation  for  immor 
tality. 

We  are  sons  and  daughters  of  God,  who  shall 
later  be  angels,  and  in  heaven 

Know  bliss  beyond  all  dream. 
THE  WOMAN  (uncovering  her  child's  face) 

My  son.  .  . 

You  and  I  lately  pulsed  with  one  pulse,  and 
sang  together  one  song: 
107 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

For  you  the  flaming  pain,  for  you  the  terror 

of  birth .  .  . 

And  this  priest's  God  let  you  suffer,  in  a  glori 
ous  preparation, 

And  let  you  die ...  (Kisses  him.) 
Cold!     Cold!     My   heart   tightens   hard,   my 

blood  is  chilled.  .  .(In  a  loud  cry.) 
Hellish  heaven !   Devilish  God ! 

(Silence.     The  Poet  advances  and  covers  the 

face.) 
THE    POET 

You  are  very  wonderful  and  very  noble  in  your 

satanic  anger, 
Your  curses  are  cleansing,  for  it  is  a  mighty 

thing  for  man  to  confront  creation 
Greater  even  than  this  vast  Night,  to  stand  in 

his  transiency 
And  his  pitiful  helplessness,  and  in  the  grasp 

of  his  doom,  and  against  death, 
Darkness,  and  mysterious  powers,  alone  of  all 

life 
Godlike,  downing  the  universe  with  defiance! 

O  godlike 

Are  you;  and  you  are  God  I 
THE  WOMAN  (gazing  at  him) 

Who  are  you,  with  these  words? 
THE    POET 

Seer  and  singer,  one  who  glories  in  life,  and 

through  vision 
Creates  his  own  worlds. 

THE   WOMAN 

Has  your  mother  ever  wept  for  you  ? 
108 


NIGHT 


THE    POET 

All  mothers  weep .  .  . 

THE    WOMAN 

Have  you  ever  had  a  child? 

THE    POET 

No  child  of  my  own:  but  I  know  the  love  of 
children. 

THE    WOMAN 

Can  I  trust  you  with  a  great  trust? 

THE    POET 

I  think  of  you  as  a  holy  thing. 

THE    WOMAN 

Then — take  this  a  moment, 
And  feel  how  light  a  heavy  burden  may  be. 
(She  carefully  places  the  child  in  his  arms.) 
THE    POET 

How  strangely  light! 

THE   WOMAN 

You  tremble.    Why? 

THE    POET 

There  is  something  so  real  in  the  stiff  posture 

of  these  tiny  legs, 

These  crooked  arms,  this  little  body, 
This  hanging  head .  .  . 

THE    WTOMAN 

Can  you  see  him? 
THE  POET  (looking  close) 
O  tiniest  budding  mouth, 
O  dark  deep  fringes  of  eyelids, 
O  pallid  cheeks.  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

And  the  little  tuft  of  hair — you  see  it? 
109 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE    POET 

Take  him  I   My  heart  is  in  despair  1 

THE    WOMAN 

No  one  will  have  my  burden;  for  my  burden 

is  heavier 
Than  any  save  a  mother  can  bear .  .  .  O  Earth, 

hard  Earth, 
I  shall  not  go  mad:  I  hold  back:  I  shut  the 

doors  on  the  Furies : 
I  stand  straight  and  stiff!    I  hold  against  my 

heart  with  words ! 
(Silence.) 
So,  poet,  yon  are  hushed !    Life  is  too  much  for 

you! 
Go — live  in  your  dreams  and  let  the  reality  of 

experience 
Flow  over  you,  untasted.  .  .You  are  wise:  it  is 

better ! 
(Silence.) 
What?     All  silent?     My  star-gazers  brought 

to  a  pause? 
You,  too? 
THE  SCIENTIST  (grimly) 

Who  would  listen  to  me  must  be  hard  and 

strong. 

THE    WOMAN 

Am  I  soft  and  weak? 

THE    SCIENTIST 

You  have  the  strength  of  revolt,  but  not  the 
greater  strength  of  acceptance. 

THE    WOMAN 

What  shall  I  accept? 

1 10 


NIGHT 


THE    SCIENTIST 

The  inexorable  facts  of  life. 

THE    WOMAN 

And  what  are  those  facts? 

THE   SCIENTIST 

That  man  is  no  more  than  the  grasses,  and  that 
man  is  no  more, 

Though  his  dreams  are  grandiose,  than  the 
pine  on  this  hill,  or  the  bright  star 

Burning  blue  out  yonder — strangely  the  chem 
icals  mix,  and  the  forces  interplay, 

And  out  of  it  consciousness  rises,  an  energy 
harnessed  by  energies, 

And  a  little  while  it  burns,  then  flickers,  then 
vanishes  out, 

And  is  no  more  than  the  October  wind  and  the 
smell  of  dried  hay. 

THE   WOMAN 

These  are  the  facts? 

THE    SCIENTIST 

These  are  the  facts. 

THE   WOMAN 

And  my  child  was  nothing  but  energy,  gathered 
and  scattered? 

THE    SCIENTIST 

These  are  the  facts.  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

He  was  only  a  cunning  engine  and  a  curious 

machine? 
THE   SCIENTIST 

Thus  are  we  all.  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

Not  all.  .  .thus  are  you.  .  . 

in 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

But  this  child  was  mine;  he  was  my  baby  and 

he  was  my  son. 
And  I  was  his  life-giver,  and  his  lover,  and  his 

mother.  .  . 
And  I  knew  the  glory  of  this  child,  for  I  lived 

with  it, 

And  I  know  the  marvel  and  mystery  of  mother 
hood,  for  I  lived  it.  .  . 
I  lived  it,  who  now  live  the  death  of  a  treasured 

being, 
And  who  know  now  that  the  light  of  the  world 

is  out,  and  only  death 
May  heal  me  of  anguish,  and  only  death's  long 

sleep 
Shall    bury    my    bereavement    in    peace .  .  .  O 

mouthers  of  words, 
Dreamers  who  do  not  live,  I  go  back  to  the 

valley, 
And  there  I  shall  put  this  babe  in  the  Earth 

where  the  seeds  of  Autumn  are  sinking, 
And  there  I  shall  slay  myself,  knowing  that 

no  one  knows, 
And  no  one  helps,  and  life  is  a  madness  and  a 

horror, 
And  to  be  dead  is  better  than  to  suffer. 

(They    say    nothing.      The    Priest    silently 
prays.     The  Woman  turns,  and  starts 
slowly  out.    But  as  she  goes  a  Man  en 
ters,  s  ear  chin  gly.) 
THE   MAN 

Beloved!     O  where  have  you  fled  from  me? 
112 


NIGHT 


THE    WOMAN 

Go  back — I  hate  you  for  bringing  this  being 

into  life, 
Whose  loss  has  ruined  life,  life  itself:  and  I 

had  better  never  loved  you, 
For  love  brings  children  to  the  mother. 

THE    MAN 

It  is  my  child,  too ...  I,  too,  have  lost  him. 
THE    WOMAN 

You  have  lost  a  plaything  and  the  promise  of 

a  man, 

And  you  have  lost  a  trouble  and  a  burden : 
But  I  have  lost  rny  love,  and  I  have  lost  the  life 

of  my  life. 

THE    MAN 

You    are    cruel    in    your    sorrow    beyond    all 

women.  .  . 
THE   WOMAN 

Then  leave  me,  and  seek  comfort  elsewhere. 
There  are  many  women. 

THE    MAN 

You  are  desperate,  and  there  is  a  hardness  in 

you  that  makes  me  afraid. 
Where  are  you  going? 

THE   WOMAN 

I  follow  this  child. 

THE    MAN 

Then  I  lose  my  child .  .  .  even  as  you  lost  yours. 

THE   WOMAN 

Your  child?    Ha  I  I  am  gone! 

(Tries  to  pass  him;  he  seizes  her.) 

113 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


THE    MAN 

You  shall  not  go,  for  you  are  mine.    O  beloved, 
hear  me! 

THE    WOMAN 

Take  away  your  hands,  for  every  moment  that 

you  make  me  stay 
Deepens  my  hate  of  you. 

THE    MAN 

You  would  break  my  life  in  bits  ? 
THE   WOMAN 

Your  life  is  not  so  easily  broken .  .  . 

You  are  a  man .  .  .  Come !   I  shall  do  some  ter 
rible  thing — 

THE    MAN 

Then  I,  too,  shall  follow.  .  . 

THE   WOMAN 

Follow?   Where? 

THE    MAN 

Wherever  you  go. 

THE   WOMAN 

Down  into  death? 

THE    MAN 

Even  into  death. 

(A  pause;  she  draws  back  a  little.) 
THE   WOMAN 

Are   you   crying?     Are   there   tears   on   your 

cheeks  ? 
Why  do  you  heave  so  ? 

THE    MAN 

Your  love  has  died.  .  . 

THE    WOMAN 

Are  you  so  weak? 

114 


NIGHT 


THE   MAN 

But  I  need  you  so ... 
THE  WOMAN  (in  a  changed  voice) 
You  need  me! 

THE    MAN 

Look!    I  do  not  need  you,  who  am  alone,  un- 

comforted, 
With  no  place  on  Earth,  no  life,  no  light,  if 

you  are  gone. .  . 

THE    WOMAN 

You  need  me? 

THE    MAN 

I  need  you .  .  . 

(Silence.) 
THE    WOMAN 

This  man  is  my  child.  .  . 
(Silence.) 

THE    MAN 

(Drawing  her  tenderly  close.) 
Our  dead  child  between  us, 
O  my  beloved,  is  there  not  a  future? 
May  no  more  children  issue  from  us,  no  more 

children 
Lovely,    golden,    waking    with    laughter,    and 

clothed  as  with  dawn 
With  the  memory  of  the  dead?     Come,  my 

beloved, 
Down  to  the  Valley,  down  to  the  living,  down 

to  the  toilers. 
Come,  my  beloved !     I  am  your  child  and  your 

father, 
Your  husband  and  your  lover!     Come,  let  us 

go! 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE  WOMAN  (weeping) 

0  my  heart  I 

Something  has  broken  in  me,   and  the  flood 
flows  through  my  being ! 

1  come !   I  come ! 

(They  go  out  together,  the  Man  with  his  arm 

around  the  Woman.) 
THE    PRIEST 

Forgive  these  children,   Lord  God! 

THE    SCIENTIST 

Ignorance  is  indeed  bliss ! 

THE    POET 

The  secret  of  life? 

He  gives  it  to  her,  she  gives  it  to  him .  .  . 

But  who  shall  tell  of  it?    Who  shall  know  it? 

[CURTAIN] 


116 


ENEMIES 

A   PLAY 
By  NEITH  BOYCE  AND  HUTCHINS  HAPGOOD 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  STEWART  &  KIDD  Co. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are 
strictly  reserved  by  the  author.  Applications  for  permission  to 
produce  the  play  should  be  made  to  The  Provincetown  Players, 
139  Macdougal  St.,  New  York. 


ENEMIES 

As  Produced  by  the  Provincetown  Players, 
New  York  City 

HE,  Justus  Sheffield 
SHE,  Ida  Rauh 

SCENE — A  Living-room 
TIME — After  Dinner 

Produced  by  the  Authors 
Setting  designed  by  B.  J.  O.  Nordfeldt 


ENEMIES 

She  is  lying  in  a  long  chair,  smoking  a  cigarette 
and  reading  a  book.  He  is  sitting  at  a  table 
with  a  lamp  at  his  left — manuscript  pages  scat 
tered  before  him,  pen  in  hand.  He  glances  at 
her,  turns  the  lamp  up,  turns  it  down,  rustles 
his  MS.,  snorts  impatiently.  She  continues 
reading. 

HE 

This  is  the  limit! 
SHE  (calmly) 

What  is? 

HE 

Oh,  nothing.  (She  turns  the  page,  continues 
reading  with  interest)  This  is  an  infernal 
lamp! 

SHE 

What's  the  matter  with  the  lamp? 

HE 

I've  asked  you  a  thousand  times  to  have  some 
order  in  the  house,  some  regularity,  some  sys 
tem  !  The  lamps  never  have  oil,  the  wicks  are 
never  cut,  the  chimneys  are  always  smoked! 
And  yet  you  wonder  that  I  don't  work  more ! 
How  can  a  man  work  without  light? 

SHE 

(glancing  critically  at  lamp)    This  lamp  seems 
to  me  to  be  all  right.    It  obviously  has  oil  in  it 
or  it  would  not  burn,  and  the  chimney  is  not 
119 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

smoked.  As  to  the  wick,  I  trimmed  it  myself 
to-day. 

HE 

Ah,  that  accounts  for  it! 

SHE 

Well,  do  it  yourself  next  time,  my  dear ! 

HE  (irritated) 

But  our  time  is  too  valuable  for  these  ever- 
recurring  jobs !  Why  don't  you  train  Theresa, 
as  I've  asked  you  so  often? 

SHE 

It  would  take  all  my  time  for  a  thousand  years 
to  train  Theresa. 

HE 

Oh,  I  know!  All  you  want  to  do  is  to  lie  in 
bed  for  breakfast,  smoke  cigarettes,  write  your 
high  literary  stuff,  make  love  to  other  men,  talk 
cleverly  when  you  go  out  to  dinner  and  never 
say  a  word  to  me  at  home !  No  wonder  you 
have  no  time  to  train  Theresa ! 
SHE 

Is  there  anything  of  interest  in  the  paper? 

HE 

You  certainly  have  a  nasty  way  of  making  an 
innocent  remark! 

HE 

I'm  sorry.     (Absorbed  in  her  book.) 
HE 

No,  you're  not.     The  last  remark  proves  it. 
SHE  (absently) 

Proves  what? 

HE 

Proves  that  you  are  an  unsocial,  brutal  woman ! 
120 


ENEMIES 


SHE 

You  are  in  a  temper  again. 

HE 

Who  wouldn't  be,  to  live  with  a  cold-blooded 
person  that  you  have  to  hit  with  a  gridiron  to 
get  a  rise  out  of? 

SHE 

I  wish  you  would  read  your  paper  quietly  and 
let  me  alone. 

HE 

Why  have  you  lived  with  me  for  fifteen  years 
if  you  want  to  be  let  alone  ? 

SHE  (with  a  sigh) 

I  have  always  hoped  you  would  settle  down. 

HE 

By  settling  down  you  mean  cease  bothering 
about  household  matters,  about  the  children, 
cease  wanting  to  be  with  you,  cease  expecting 
you  to  have  any  interest  in  me. 

SHE 

No,  I  only  mean  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a 
peaceful  evening  sometimes.  But  (laying  book 
down)  I  see  you  want  to  quarrel — so  what 
shall  we  quarrel  about?  Choose  your  own  sub 
ject,  my  dear. 

HE 

When  you're  with  Hank  you  don't  want  a  peace 
ful  evening! 

SHE 

Now  how  can  you  possibly  know  that? 

HE 

Oh,  I've  seen  you  with  him  and  others  and  I 
know  the  difference.     When  you're  with  them 
121 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

you're  alert  and  interested.  You  keep  your 
unsociability  for  me.  (Pause)  Of  course,  I 

•     know  why. 

SHE 

One  reason  is  that  "they"  don't  talk  about  lamp- 
wicks  and  so  forth.  They  talk  about  higher 
things. 

HE 

Some  people  would  call  them  lower  things! 

SHE 

Well — more  interesting  things,  anyway. 

HE 

Yes,  I  know  you  think  those  things  more  in 
teresting  than  household  and  children  and  hus 
band. 

SHE 

Oh,  only  occasionally,  you  know — just  for  a 
change.  You  like  a  change  yourself  some 
times. 

HE 

Yes,  sometimes.  But  I  am  excited,  and  inter 
ested  and  keen  whenever  I  am  with  you.  It 
is  not  only  cigarettes  and  flirtation  that  excite 
me. 

SHE 

Well,  you  are  an  excitable  person.  You  get 
excited  about  nothing  at  all. 

HE 

Are  home  and  wife  and  children  nothing  at  all? 
SHE 

There  are  other  things.  But  you,  Deacon,  are 
like  the  skylark — 

122 


ENEMIES 


"Type  of  the  wise  who  soar  but  do  not  roam — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  heaven  and 
home." 

HE 

You  are  cheaply  cynical !  You  ought  not  to  in 
sult  Wordsworth.  He  meant  what  he  said. 

SHE 

He  was  a  good  man.  .  .  .  But  to  get  back 
to  our  original  quarrel.  You're  quite  mistaken. 
I'm  more  social  with  you  than  with  anyone 
else.  Hank,  for  instance,  hates  to  talk — even 
more  than  I  do.  He  and  I  spend  hours  to 
gether  looking  at  the  sea — each  of  us  absorbed 
in  our  own  thoughts — without  saying  a  word. 
What  could  be  more  peaceful  than  that? 

HE  (indignantly) 

I  don't  believe  it's  peaceful — but  it  must  be 
wonderful ! 

SHE 

It  is — marvelous.  I  wish  you  were  more  like 
that.  What  beautiful  evenings  we  could  have 
together ! 

HE  (bitterly) 

Most  of  our  evenings  are  silent  enough — unless 
we  are  quarreling! 

SHE 

Yes,  if  you're  not  talking,  it's  because  you're 
sulking.  You  are  never  sweetly  silent — never 
really  quiet. 

HE 

That's  true — with  you — I  am  rarely  quiet  with 
you — because  you  rarely  express  anything  to 
123 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

me.  I  would  be  more  quiet  if  you  were  less  so 
— less  expressive  if  you  were  more  so. 

SHE  (pensively) 

The  same  old  quarrel.  Just  the  same  for  fif 
teen  years !  And  all  because  you  are  you  and 
I  am  I !  And  I  suppose  it  will  go  on  forever — 
I  shall  go  on  being  silent,  and  you — 

HE 

I  suppose  I  shall  go  on  talking — but  it  really 
doesn't  matter — the  silence  or  the  talk — if  we 
had  something  to  be  silent  about  or  to  talk 
about  —  something  in  common  —  that's  the 
point ! 

SHE 

Do  you  really  think  we  have  nothing  in  com 
mon?     We  both  like  Dostoievsky  and  prefer 
Burgundy  to  champagne. 
HE 

Our  tastes  and  our  vices  are  remarkably  con 
genial,  but  our  souls  do  not  touch. 

SHE 

Our  souls?  Why  should  they?  Every  soul  is 
lonely. 

HE 

Yes,  but  doesn't  want  to  be.  The  soul  desires 
to  find  something  into  which  to  fuse  and  so  lose 
its  loneliness.  This  hope  to  lose  the  soul's  lone 
liness  by  union — is  love.  It  is  the  essence  of 
love  as  it  is  of  religion. 

SHE 

Deacon,  you  are  growing  more  holy  every  day. 
You  will  drive  me  to  drink. 
124 


ENEMIES 


HE  (moodily) 

That  will  only  complete  the  list. 

SHE 

Well,  then  I  suppose  we  may  be  more  congenial 
— for  in  spite  of  what  you  say,  our  vices  haven't 
exactly  matched.  You're  ahead  of  me  on  the 
drink. 

HE 

Yes,  and  you  on  some  other  things.  But  per 
haps  I  can  catch  up,  too — 

SHE 

Perhaps — if  you  really  give  all  your  time  to  it, 
as  you  did  last  winter,  for  instance.  But  I 
doubt  if  I  can  ever  equal  your  record  in  pota 
tions. 

HE  (bitterly) 

I  can  never  equal  your  record  in  the  soul's  in 
fidelities. 

SHE 

Well,  do  you  expect  my  soul  to  be  faithful 
when  you  keep  hitting  it  with  a  gridiron? 

HE 

No,  I  do  not  expect  it  of  you!  I  have  about 
given  up  the  hope  that  you  will  ever  respond 
either  to  my  ideas  about  household  and  chil 
dren  or  about  our  personal  relations.  You 
seem  to  want  as  little  as  possible  of  the  things 
that  I  want  much.  I  harass  you  by  insisting. 
You  anger  and  exasperate  me  by  retreating. 
We  were  fools  not  to  have  separated  long  ago. 

SHE 

Again!  How  you  do  repeat  yourself,  my 
dear! 

125 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

HE 

.  Yes,  I  am  very  weak.  In  spite  of  my  better 
judgment  I  have  loved  you.  But  this  time  I 
mean  it! 

SHE 

I  don't  believe  you  do.  You  never  mean  half 
the  things  you  say. 

HE 

I  do  this  time.  This  affair  of  yours  with  Hank 
is  on  my  nerves.  It  is  real  spiritual  infidelity. 
When  you  are  interested  in  him  you  lose  all 
interest  in  the  household,  the  children  and 
me.  It  is  my  duty  to  separate. 

SHE 

Oh,  nonsense!  I  didn't  separate  from  you 
when  you  were  running  after  the  widow  last 
winter — spending  hours  with  her  every  day, 
dining  with  her  and  leaving  me  alone,  and  tell 
ing  me  she  was  the  only  woman  who  had  ever 
understood  you. 
HE 

I  didn't  run  after  the  widow,  or  any  other 
woman  except  you.  They  ran  after  me. 

SHE 

Oh,  of  course!  Just  the  same  since  Adam — 
not  one  of  you  has  spirit  enough  to  go  after  the 
apple  himself!  "They  ran  after  you" — but 
you  didn't  run  away  very  fast,  did  you? 

HE 

Why  should  I,  when  I  wanted  them  to  take 
possession  if  they  could?  I  think  I  showed 
splendid  spirit  in  running  after  you  !  Not  more 
than  a  dozen  other  men  have  shown  the  same 

126 


ENEMIES 


spirit.  It  is  true,  as  you  say,  that  other  women 
understand  and  sympathize  with  me.  They  all 
do  except  you.  I've  never  been  able  to  be  es 
sentially  unfaithfully,  more's  the  pity.  You  are 
abler  in  that  regard. 

SHE 

I  don't  think  so.  I  may  have  liked  other  peo 
ple,  but  I  never  dreamed  of  marrying  anyone 
but  you.  .  .  .  No,  and  I  never  thought  any 
of  them  understood  me,  either.  I  took  very 
good  care  they  shouldn't. 

SHE 

Why,  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  you  said 
Hank  understood  you  better  than  I  ever  could. 
You  said  I  was  too  virtuous,  and  that  if  I  were 
worse  you  might  see  me  I 

SHE 

As  usual,  you  misquote  me.  What  I  said  was 
that  Hank  and  I  were  more  alike,  and  that  you 
are  a  virtuous  stranger — a  sort  of  wandering 
John  the  Baptist,  preaching  in  the  wilderness! 

HE 

Preachers  don't  do  the  things  I  do! 

SHE 

Oh,  don't  they? 

HE 

Well,  I  know  I  am  as  vicious  as  man  can  be. 
You  would  see  that  if  you  loved  me.  I  am  fully 
as  bad  as  Hank. 

SHE 

Hank  doesn't  pretend  to  be  virtuous,  so  per 
haps  you're  worse.  But  I  think  you  ought  to 

127 


THE  PRQV1NCETOWN  PLAYS 

make  up  your  mind  whether  you're  virtuous  or 
vicious,  and  not  assume  to  be  both. 

HE 

I  am  both  as  a  matter  of  fact,  like  everybody 
else.  I  am  not  a  hypocrite.  I  love  the  virtuous 
and  also  the  vicious.  But  I  don't  like  to  be  left 
out  in  the  cold  when  you  are  having  an  affair. 
When  you  are  interested  in  the  other,  you  are 
not  in  me. 

SHE 

Why  do  you  pretend  to  fuss  about  la«ips  and 
such  things  when  you  are  simply  jealous?  I 
call  that  hypocritical.  I  wish  it  were  possible 
for  a  man  to  play  fair.  But  what  you  want  is 
to  censor  and  control  me,  while  you  feel  per 
fectly  free  to  amuse  yourself  in  every  possible 
way. 
HE 

I  am  never  jealous  without  cause,  and  you  are. 
You  object  to  my  friendly  and  physical  intima 
cies  and  then  expect  me  not  to  be  jealous  of 
your  soul's  infidelities,  when  you  lose  all  feeling 
for  me.  I  am  tired  of  it.  <  It  is  a  fundamental 
misunderstanding,  and  we  ought  to  separate  at 
once! 

SHE 

Oh,  very  well,  if  you're  so  keen  on  it.     But 
remember,  you  suggest  it.  I  never  said  I  wanted 
to  separate  from  you — if  I  had,  I  wouldn't  be 
here  now. 
HE 

No,  because  I've  given  all  I  had  to  you.    I  have 
nourished  you  with  my  love.     You  have  har- 
128 


ENEMIES 


assed  and  destroyed  me.  I  am  no  good  be 
cause  of  you.  You  have  made  me  work  over 
you  to  the  degree  that  I  have  no  real  life.  You 
have  enslaved  me,  and  your  method  is  cool 
aloofness.  You  want  to  keep  on  being  cruel. 
You  are  the  devil,  who  never  really  meant  any 
harm,  but  who  sneers  at  desires  and  never  wants 
to  satisfy.  Let  us  separate — you  are  my  only 
enemy ! 
SHE 

Well,  you  know  we  are  told  to  love  our  enemies. 

HE 

I  have  done  my  full  duty  in  that  respect.  Peo 
ple  we  love  are  the  only  ones  who  can  hurt  us. 
They  are  our  enemies,  unless  they  love  us  in 
return. 

SHE 

"A  man's  enemies  are  those  of  his  own  house 
hold" — yes,  especially  if  they  love.  You,  on 
account  of  your  love  for  me,  have  tyrannized 
over  me,  bothered  me,  badgered  me,  nagged 
me,  for  fifteen  years.  You  have  interfered 
with  me,  taken  my  time  and  strength,  and  pre 
vented  me  from  accomplishing  great  works  for 
the  good  of  humanity.  You  have  crushed  my 
soul,  which  longs  for  serenity  and  peace,  with 
your  perpetual  complaining! 

HE 

Too  bad.     (Indignantly)     Perpetual  complain 
ing! 
SHE 

Yes,  of  course.     But  you  see,  my  dear,  I  am 
more  philosophical  than  you,  and  I  recognize 
129 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

all  this  as  necessity.  Men  and  women  are  nat 
ural  enemies,  like  cat  and  dog — only  more  so. 
They  are  forced  to  live  together  for  a  time, 
or  this  wonderful  race  couldn't  go  on.  In  ad 
dition,  in  order  to  have  the  best  children,  men 
and  women  of  totally  opposed  temperaments 
must  live  together.  The  shock  and  flame  of 
two  hostile  temperaments  meeting  is  what  pro 
duces  fine  children.  Well,  we  have  fulfilled  our 
fate  and  produced  our  children,  and  they  are 
good  ones.  But  really — to  expect  also  to  live 
in  peace  together — we  as  different  as  fire  and 
water,  or  sea  and  land — that's  too  much ! 
HE 

If  your  philosophy  is  correct,  that  is  another 
argument  for  separation.  If  we  have  done  our 
job  together,  let's  go  on  our  ways  and  try  to 
do  something  else  separately. 

SHE 

Perfectly  logical.  Perhaps  it  will  be  best.  But 
no  divorce — that's  so  commonplace. 

HE 

Almost  as  commonplace  as  your  conventional 
attitude  toward  husbands — that  they  are  nec 
essarily  uninteresting — mon  bete  de  man — as 
the  typical  Frenchwoman  of  fiction  says.  I  find 
divorce  no  more  commonplace  than  real  infi 
delity. 

SHE 

Both  are  matters  of  every  day.  But  I  see  no 
reason  for  divorce  unless  one  of  the  spouses 
wants  to  marry  again.  I  shall  never  divorce 
you.  But  men  can  always  have  children,  and 
130 


ENEMIES 


so  they  are  perpetually  under  the  sway  of  the 
great  illusion.  If  you  want  to  marry  again, 
you  can  divorce  me. 

HE 

As  usual,  you  want  to  see  me  as  a  brute.  I 
don't  accept  your  philosophy.  Children  are  the 
results  of  love,  not  because  of  it,  and  love  should 
go  on.  It  does  go  on,  if  once  there  has  been 
the  right  relations.  It  is  not  re-marrying  or 
the  unconscious  desire  for  further  propagation 
that  moves  me — but  the  eternal  need  of  that 
peculiar  sympathy  which  has  never  been  satis 
fied — to  die  without  that  is  failure  of  what 
most  appeals  to  the  imagination  of  human  be 
ings. 

SHE 

But  that  is  precisely  the  great  illusion.  That  is 
the  unattainable  that  lures  us  on,  and  that  will 
lead  you,  I  foresee,  if  you  leave  me,  into  the 
arms  of  some  other  woman. 

HE 

Illusion!  Precisely  what  is,  you  call  illusion. 
Only  there  do  we  find  Truth.  And  certainly  I 
am  bitten  badly  with  illusion  or  truth,  which 
ever  it  is.  It  is  Truth  to  me.  But  I  fear  it  may 
be  too  late.  I  fear  the  other  woman  is  im 
possible. 

SHE  (pensively) 

"I  cannot  comprehend  this  wild  swooning  de 
sire  to  wallow  in  unbridled  unity."  (He  makes 
angry  gesture,  she  goes  on  quickly)  I  was  quot 
ing  your  favorite  philosopher.  But  as  to  being 
too  late — no,  no — you're  more  attractive  than 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

you  ever  were,  and  that  shows  your  ingratitude 
to  me,  for  I'm  sure  I  have  been  a  liberal  educa 
tion  to  you.  You  will  easily  find  someone  to 
adore  you  and  console  you  for  all  your  suffer 
ings  with  me.  But  do  be  careful  this  time — get 
a  good  housekeeper. 

HE 

And  you  are  more  attractive  than  you  ever  were. 
I  can  see  that  others  see  that.  I  have  been  a 
liberal  education  to  you,  too. 

SHE 

Yes,  a  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

HE 

I  never  would  have  seen  woman,  if  I  hadn't  suf 
fered  you. 

SHE 

I  never  would  have  suffered  man,  if  I  hadn't 
seen  you. 
HE 

You  never  saw  me ! 

SHE 

Alas — yes!  (With  feeling)  I  saw  you  as 
something  very  beautiful — very  fine,  sensitive 
— with  more  understanding  than  anyone  I've 
ever  known — more  feeling — I  still  see  you  that 
way — but  from  a  great — distance. 

HE  (startled) 
Distance? 

SHE 

Yes.  Don't  you  feel  how  far  away  from  one 
another  we  are? 

HE 

I  have  felt  it,  as  you  know — more  and  more  so — 
132 


ENEMIES 


that  you  were  pushing  me  more  and  more  away 
and  seeking  more  and  more  somebody — some 
thing  else.  But  this  is  the  first  time  you  have 
admitted  feeling  it. 

SHE 

Yes — I  didn't  want  to  admit  it.  But  now  I  see 
it  has  gone  very  far.  It  is  as  though  we  were 
on  opposite  banks  of  a  stream  that  grows  wider 
— separating  us  more  and  more. 

HE 
Yes— 

SHE 

You  have  gone  your  own  way,  and  I  mine — and 

there  is  a  gulf  between  us. 
HE 

Now  you  see  what  I  mean — 
SHE 

Yes,  that  we  ought  to  separate — that  we  are 

separated — and  yet  I  love  you. 
HE 

Two  people  may  love  intensely,  and  yet  not  be 

able  to  live  together.    It  is  too  painful,  for  you, 

for  me — 
SHE 

We  have  hurt  one  another  too  much — 
HE 

We  have  destroyed  one  another — we  are  ene 
mies.  (Pause.) 

SHE 

I  don't  understand  it — how  we  have  come  to 
this — after  our  long  life  together.  Have  you 
forgotten  all  that?  What  wonderful  compan 
ions  we  were?  How  gayly  we  took  life  with 

133 


THE  PROVINCETQWN  PLAYS 

both  hands — how  we  played  with  it  and  with 
one  another !  At  least,  we  have  the  past. 

HE 

The  past  is  bitter — because  the  present  is  bitter. 

SHE 

You  wrong  the  past. 

HE 

The  past  is  always  judged  by  the  present.  Dante 
said,  the  worst  hell  is  in  present  misery  to  re 
member  former  happiness — 

SHE 

Dante  was  a  man  and  a  poet,  and  so  ungrateful 
to  life.  (Pause  with  feeling)  Our  past  to  me 
is  wonderful  and  will  remain  so,  no  matter  what 
happens — full  of  color  and  life — complete  ! 

HE 

That  is  because  our  life  together  has  been  for 
you  an  episode. 

SHE 

No,  it  is  because  I  take  life  as  it  is,  not  asking 
too  much  of  it — not  asking  that  any  person  or 
any  relation  be  perfect.  But  you  are  an  idealist 
— you  can  never  be  content  with  what  it —  You 
have  the  poison,  the  longing  for  perfection  in 
your  soul. 

HE 

No,  not  for  perfection,  but  for  union.  That  is 
not  demanding  the  impossible.  Many  people 
have  it  who  do  not  love  as  much  as  we  do.  No 
work  of  art  is  right,  no  matter  how  wonderful 
the  material  and  the  parts,  if  the  whole,  the 
unity,  is  not  there. 

134 


ENEMIES 


SHE 

That's  just  what  I  mean.  You  have  wanted  to 
treat  our  relation,  and  me,  as  clay,  and  model 
it  into  the  form  you  saw  in  your  imagination. 
You  have  been  a  passionate  artist.  But  life  is 
not  a  plastic  material.  It  models  us. 

HE 

You  are  right.  I  have  had  the  egotism  of  the 
artist,  directed  to  a  material  that  cannot  be 
formed.  I  must  let  go  of  you,  and  satisfy  my 
need  of  union,  of  marriage,  otherwise  than  with 
you. 

SHE 

Yes,  but  you  cannot  do  that  by  seeking  another 
woman.  You  would  experience  the  same  illu. 
sion — the  same  disillusion. 

HE 

How,  then,  can  I  satisfy  this  mystic  need? 

SHE 

That  is  between  you  and  your  God — whom  I 
know  nothing  about. 
HE 

If  I  could  have  stripped  you  of  divinity  and 
sought  it  elsewhere — in  religion,  in  work — 
with  the  same  intensity  I  sought  it  in  you — we 
would  not  have  needed  this  separation. 

SHE 

And  we  should  have  been  very  happy  together ! 

HE 

Yes — as  interesting  changers. 

SHE 

Exactly.  The  only  sensible  way  for  two  fully 
grown  people  to  be  together — and  that  is  won- 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

derful,  too — think!  To  have  lived  together 
for  fifteen  years  and  never  to  have  bored  one 
another !  To  be  still  for  one  another  the  most 
interesting  persons  in  the  world!  How  many 
married  people  can  say  that?  I've  never  bored 
you,  have  I,  Deacon? 

HE 

You  have  harassed,  plagued,  maddened,  tor 
tured  me !  Bored  me  ?  No,  never,  you  be 
witching  devil!  (Moving  toward  her.) 

SHE 

I've  always  adored  the  poet  and  mystic  in  you, 

though  you've   almost   driven   me   crazy,   you 

Man  of  God! 
HE 

I've  always  adored  the  woman  in  you,  the  mys 
terious,  the  beckoning  and  flying,  that  I  cannot 

possess ! 
SHE 

Can't  you  forget  God  for  a  while,  and  come 

away  with  me? 
HE 

Yes,  darling;  after  all,  you're  one   of  God's 

creatures ! 
SHE 

Faithful  to  the  end!     A  truce  then,  shall  it  be? 

(Opening  her  arms)     An  armed  truce? 
HE 

(seizing    her)      Yes,    and   in    a    trice !      (She 

laughs.) 

[QUICK  CURTAIN] 


136 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

A  COMEDY 

BY  FLOYD  DELL 


Copyright,  1918, 
BY  EGMONT  ARENS 

All  Rights  Reserved 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are 
strictly  reserved  by  the  author.  Applications  for  permission  to 
produce  the  play  should  be  made  to  The  Provincetown  Players, 
139  Macdougal  St.,  New  York. 

Reprinted  from  No.  3  of  "The  Flying  Stag  Plays,"  published 
by  Egmont  Arens,  27  West  Eighth  St.,  from  whom  the  acting  edi 
tion  may  be  obtained. 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

TIME— 

The  present 
PLACE — THE  PROLOGUE — 

Washington  Square,  New  York  City 
THE  PLAY — 

Jimmy  Pendleton's  Studio  in  Macdougal  Alley 

THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES  was  first  produced  by 
the  Provincetown  Players,  on  December  28,  1917, 
with  the  following  cast: 

A  POLICEMAN,  Abram  Gillette 
THE  ANGEL,  James  Light 
JIMMY  PENDLETON,  Justus  Sheffield 
ANNABELLE,  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

Scenes  by  Floyd  Dell  and  Neal  Reber.  Di 
rected  by  Nina  Moise  and  Floyd  Dell. 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

THE  PROLOGUE 

Washington  Square  by  moonlight.  A  stream  of 
Greenwich  Villagers  hurrying  across  to  the 
Brevoort  before  the  doors  are  locked.  In  their 
wake  a  sleepy  policeman. 

The  Policeman  stops  suddenly  on  seeing  an  Angel 
with  shining  garments  and  great  white  wings, 
who  has  just  appeared  out  of  nowhere. 

THE    POLICEMAN 

Hey,  you ! 
THE  ANGEL  (haughtily,  turning) 

Sir!     Are  you  addressing  me? 
THE  POLICEMAN  (severely) 

Yes,  an'  I've  a  good  mind  to  lock  you  up. 
THE  ANGEL  (surprised  and  indignant) 

How  very  inhospitable!     Is  that  the  way  you 

treat  strangers? 

THE    POLICEMAN 

Don't  you  know  it's  agen  the  law  of  New  York 
to  parade  the  streets  in  a  masquerade  costume? 

THE   ANGEL 

No;  I  didn't  know.  You  see,  I  just  arrived 
this  minute  from  Heaven. 

THE    POLICEMAN 

Ye  look  it.  (Taking  his  arm  kindly)  See  here, 
me  lad,  you've  been  drinkin'  too  many  of  them 
stingers.  Ye'd  better  take  a  taxi  and  go  home. 

THE    ANGEL 

What!    So  soon? 

139 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE    POLICEMAN 

I  know  how  ye  feel.  I've  been  that  way  meself. 
But  I  can't  leave  ye  go  trapesin'  about  in  skirts. 

THE    ANGEL 

(drawing  away)  Sir,  I  am  not  trapesing  about. 
I  am  attending  to  important  business,  and  I 
must  ask  you  not  to  detain  me. 

THE    POLICEMAN   (suspiciously ) 

Not  so  fast,  me  laddie-buck.  What  business 
have  you  at  this  hour  of  the  night  ?  Tell  me  that ! 

THE    ANGEL 

I  don't  mind  telling  you.  It  concerns  a  mortal 
called  James  Pendleton. 

THE    POLICEMAN 

(genial  again)  Aha !  So  you're  a  friend  of 
jimmy  Pendleton's,  are  you  ? 

THE    ANGEL 

Not  exactly.    I  am  his  Guardian  Angel. 

THE    POLICEMAN 

Well,  faith,  he  needs  one !  Come,  me  boy,  I'll 
see  ye  safe  to  his  door. 

THE    ANGEt, 

Thank  you.  But,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  prefer 
to  go  alone.  (He  turns  away.) 

THE    POLICEMAN 

Good-night  to  you,  then.  (He  idly  watches  the 
angelic  figure  walk  away,  and  then  stares  with 
amazement  as  it  spreads  its  wings  and  soars  to 
the  top  of  Washington  Arch.  Pausing  there  a 
moment,  it  soars  again  in  the  air,  and  is  seen 
wafting  its  way  over  the  neighboring  housetops 
to  the  northeast.  The  Policeman  shakes  his 
head  in  disapproval.) 

140 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 


THE  PLAY 

Jimmy  Pendleton  is  dozing  in  an  easy  chair  be 
fore  the  grate-fire  in  his  studio  in  Washington 
Mews.  A  yellow-backed  French  novel  has 
fallen  from  his  knee  to  the  floor.  It  is  Anatole 
France's  "La  Revolte  des  Anges."  A  clock 
strikes  somewhere.  Jimmy  Pendleton  awakes. 

JIMMY 

What  a  queer  dream  1  (He  looks  at  his  watch) 
One  o'clock !  The  taxi  ought  to  be  here.  (He 
takes  two  steamship  tickets  from  his  pocket, 
looks  at  them,  and  puts  them  back.  Then  he 
commences  to  pace  nervously  up  and  down  the 
room,  muttering  to  himself)  Fool!  Idiot! 
Imbecile !  (He  is  not,  noticeably,  any  of  these 
things;  he  is  a  very  handsome  man  of  forty. 
There  is  the  blast  of  an  auto  horn  outside.  He 
makes  an  angry  gesture)  Too  late !  That's 
the  taxi.  (But  he  stands  uncertainly  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  floor.  There  is  a  hard  pounding  of 
the  knocker)  Yes,  yes !  (He  makes  a  move 
ment  toward  the  door,  when  it  suddenly  opens, 
and  a  lovely  lady  enters.  He  stares  at  her  in 
surprise)  Annabelle!  (Annabelle  is  little. 
Annabelle' s  petulant  upturned  lips  are  rosebud 
red.  Annabelle's  round  eyes  are  baby-blue. 
Annabelle  is — young.) 

ANNABELLE 

Yes,  it's  me!     (There  is  a  tiny  lisp  in  Anna- 
belle's  speech)     I  got  tired  of  waiting,  and  the 
door  was  unlocked,. so  I  came  right  in. 
141 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

JIMMY 

Well!! 

ANNABELLE   (hurt) 

Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me? 

JIMMY 

I'm — delighted.  But — but — I  thought  we  were 
to  meet  at  the  pier! 

ANNABELLE 

So  we  were. 

JIMMY 

You  haven't  changed  your  mind? 

ANNABELLE 

No... 

JIMMY 

Er — good. 

ANNABELLE 

But... 

JIMMY 

Yes?... 

ANNABELLE 

I  got  to  wondering .  .  .    (Drifts  to  the  easy  chair 

in  front  of  the  fire.) 
JIMMY 

Wondering — about  what?     (He  looks  at  his 

watch.) 
ANNABELLE 

About  love .  .  . 

JIMMY 

Well .  .  .  (He  lights  a  cigarette)  It's  a  subject 
that  can  stand  a  good  deal  of  wondering  about. 
I've  wondered  about  it  myself. 

ANNABELLE 

That's  just  it — you  speak  so  cynically  about 
142 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

it.  I  don't  believe  you're  in  love  with  me  at 
all! 

JIMMY 

Nonsense  I    Of  course  I'm  in  love  with  you. 

ANNABELLE   (sadly) 

No,  you're  not. 
JIMMY  (angrily) 

But,  I  tell  you,  I  am! 
ANNABELLE 

No... 

JIMMY 

Foolish  child! 

ANNABELLE 

Well,  let's  not  quarrel  about  it  now. 
JIMMY  (vehemently) 

What  do  you  suppose  this  insanity  is  if  it  isn't 
love?  What  do  you  imagine  leads  me  to  this 
preposterous  elopement,  if  not  that  prepos 
terous  passion?  What  makes  you  come  with 
me  in  spite  of  the  way  I  talk?  Tell  me  that! 

ANNABELLE 

Perhaps  I'm  not  coming. 
JIMMY 

Yes  you  are.  It's  foolish — mad — wicked-— but 
you're  coming.  (She  begins  to  cry  softly)  If 
not — ten  minutes  away  is  safety  and  peace  and 
comfort.  Shall  I  call  a  taxi  for  you?  (She 
shakes  her  head)  No ;  I  thought  not.  Oh,  it's 
love  all  right. 

ANNABELLE 

I  hate  you ! 
JIMMY  (cheerfully) 

That's  all  right.     (Smiling)     I  rather  hate  you 

143 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

myself.    And  that's  the  final  proof  that  this  is 
love. 
ANNABELLE  (sobbing) 

I  thought  love  was  something  quite — different ! 

JIMMY 

You  thought  it  was  beautiful.  It  isn't.  It's 
just  blithering,  blathering  folly.  We'll  both  re 
gret  it  to-morrow. 

ANNABELLE 

I  won't  I 

JIMMY 

Yes  you  will.     It's  human  nature.     Face  the 
facts. 
ANNABELLE  (tearfully) 

Facing  the  facts  is  one  thing  and  being  in  love 
is  another. 

JIMMY 

Quite  so.  Well,  how  long  do  you  think  your 
love  for  me  will  last? 

ANNABELLE 

Forever ! 

JIMMY 

H-m !     I  predict  that  you  will  fall  in  love  with 
the  next  man  you  meet. 
ANNABELLE 

I  think  you're  perfectly  horrid. 

JIMMY 

So  do  I.  I  disapprove  of  myself  violently.  I'm 
a  doddering  lunatic,  incapable  of  thinking  of 
anything  but  you.  I  can't  work.  I  can't  eat. 
I  can''c  sleep.  I'm  no  use  to  the  world.  I'm  not 
a  rnan — I'm  a  mess.  I'm  about  to  do  some 
thing  silly  because  I  can't  do  anything  else. 
144 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

ANNABELLE  (pouting) 

You've  no  respect  for  me. 
JIMMY 

None  whatever.     I  love  you.     And  I'm  going 
to  carry  you  off. 

ANNABELLE 

You're  a  brute. 
JIMMY 

Absolutely.    I'd  advise  you  to  go  straight  home. 
ANNABELLE  (defiantly) 

Perhaps  I  shall ! 

JIMMY 

Then  go  quick.      (He  takes  out  his  watch) 
In  one  minute,  if  you  are  still  here,  I  shall  pick 
you  up   and  carry  you  off  to  Italy.     Quick! 
There's  the  door! 
ANNABELLE  (faintly) 
I — I  want  to  go ... 

JIMMY 

Well,  why  don't  you  ? .  .  .  Thirty  seconds ! 

ANNABELLE 

I— I  can't! 

JIMMY 

(shutting  his  watch)  Time's  up.  The  die  is 
cast!  (He  lifts  her  from  the  chair.  She  clings 
to  him  helplessly)  My  darling !  My  treasure ! 
My  beloved ! — Idiot  that  I  am !  (He  kisses  her 
fiercely.) 
ANNABELLE 

(struggling    in    his    arms)      No!     No!     No! 
Stop! 

JIMMY 

Never! 

145 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

ANNABELLE 

Stop!  Please!  Please!  Oh!...  (The  light 
suddenly  goes  out,  and  an  instant  later  blazes 
up  again,  revealing  the  Angel,  who  has  sud 
denly  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The 
two  of  them  stare  at  the  apparition.) 

THE   ANGEL 

I  hope  I  am  not  intruding? 

JIMMY 

Why — why — not  exactly! 

THE   ANGEL 

If  I  am... 

JIMMY 

No,  really.  .  . 

ANNABELLE 

(in  his  arms,  indignantly)  Jimmy!  Who  is 
that  man? 

JIMMY 

(becoming  aware  of  her  and  putting  her  down 
carefully)  I — why — why,  the  fact  is,  I  don't .  .  . 

THE    ANGEL 

The  fact  is,  madame,  I  am  his  Guardian  Angel. 

ANNABELLE 

An  Angel!   Oh! 

THE   ANGEL 

Tell  me,  have  I  intruded? 

ANNABELLE 

No;  not  at  all! 

THE    ANGEL 

Thank  you  for  reassuring  me.     I  feared  for  a 
moment  that  I  had  made  an  inopportune  en 
trance.     I  was  about  to  suggest  that  I  with- 
146 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

draw  until  you  had  finished  the — er — ceremony 
— which  I  seem  to  have  interrupted. 
JIMMY  (surprised) 

But  wasn't  that  what  you  came  for — to  inter 
rupt? 

THE    ANGEL 

I  beg  your  pardon ! 
JIMMY  (bewilder edly) 

I  mean — if  you  are  my  Guardian  Angel,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  must  have  come  to 
— to  interfere! 

THE   ANGEL 

I  hope  you  will  not  think  I  would  be  capable  of 
such  presumption ! 
JIMMY  (puzzled) 

You  don't  want  to — so  to  speak — reform  me? 

THE    ANGEL 

Not  at  all.     Why,  I  scarcely  know  you ! 
JIMMY 

But  you're  my — my  Guardian  Angel,  you  say? 

THE    ANGEL 

Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure.  But  the  relation  of  an 
gelic  guardianship  has  for  some  hundreds  of 
years  been  a  purely  nominal  one.  We  have 
come  to  feel  that  it  is  best  to  allow  mortals  to 
attend  to  their  own  affairs. 
JIMMY  (abruptly) 

Then,  what  did  you  come  for? 

THE    ANGEL 

For  a  change.  One  becomes  tired  of  familiar 
scenes.  And  I  thought  that  perhaps  my  rela 
tionship  to  you  might  serve  in  lieu  of  an  intro 
duction.  I  wanted  to  be  among  friends. 

147 


THE  PROVINCETQWN  PLAYS 

JIMMY 

Oh,  I  see. 

ANNABELLE 

Of  course.  We're  delighted  to  have  you  with 
us.  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  (She  leads  the  way 
to  the  fire.) 

THE    ANGEL 

(perching  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  big  chairs) 
If  you  don't  mind!  My  wings,  you  know. 

JIMMY  (hesitantly) 
Have  a  cigarette? 

THE   ANGEL 

Thank  you.  (He  takes  one)  I  am  most 
anxious  to  learn  the  more  important  of  your 
earthly  arts  and  sciences.  Please  correct  me 
if  I  go  wrong.  This  is  my  first  attempt,  remem 
ber.  (He  blows  out  a  puff  of  smoke.) 

ANNABELLE 

(from  the  settle)    You're  doing  it  very  nicely. 

THE    ANGEL 

It  is  incense  to  the  mind. 

ANNABELLE 

(laughingly,  blowing  a  series  of  smoke  rings) 
You  must  learn  to  do  it  like  this ! 

THE  ANGEL  (in  awe) 

That  is  too  wonderful  an  art.  I  fear  I  can 
never  learn  it ! 

ANNABELLE 

I  will  teach  you. 
THE  ANGEL  (earnestly) 

If  you  were  my  teacher,  I  think  I  could  learn 
anything. 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 


ANNABELLE 

(giggles,  charmingly.) 
JIMMY  (embarrassed) 
Really,  Annabelle.  .  . 

ANNABELLE 

What's  the  matter? 

JIMMY 

Ordinarily  I  wouldn't  mind  you're  flirting  with 
strangers,  but.  .  . 
ANNABELLE  (indignantly) 
Jimmy !   How  can  you  ? 

THE   ANGEL 

It  was  my  fault,  I'm  sure — if  fault  there  was. 
But  what  is  it — to  flirt?  You  see,  I  wish  to 
learn  everything. 

ANNABELLE 

I  hope  you  never  learn  that. 

THE   ANGEL 

I  put  myself  in  your  hands. 

JIMMY 

Er — would  you  like  a — drink  ? 

THE   ANGEL 

Thank  you.  I  am  very  thirsty.  (Taking  the 
glass)  This  is  very  different  from  what  we 
have  in  Heaven.  (He  tastes  it.  A  look  of 
gratified  surprise  appears  on  his  face)  And 
much  better !  (He  drains  the  glass  and  hands 
it  back)  May  I  have  some  more  ? 

ANNABELLE 

Be  careful ! 

THE    ANGEL 

What  should  I  be  careful  of? 
149 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


ANNABELLE 

Don't  take  too  much  of  that — if  it's  the  first 
time. 

THE   ANGEL 

Why  not?    It  is  an  excellent  drink. 
JIMMY  (laughing) 

The  maternal  instinct !  She  is  afraid  you  may 
make  yourself — ridiculous. 

THE   ANGEL 

Angels  do  not  care  for  appearances.  (He 
stands  up  magnificently  in  the  chair,  towering 
above  them)  Besides.  .  .  (Refilling  his  glass) 
I  feel  that  you  do  an  injustice  to  this  drink.  Al 
ready  it  has  made  a  new  being  of  me.  (He  looks 
at  Annabelle)  I  feel  an  emotion  that  I  have 
never  known  before.  If  I  were  in  Heaven,  I 
should  sing. 

ANNABELLE 

Oh!    Won't  you  sing? 

THE   ANGEL 

The  fact  is,  I  know  nothing  but  hymns.  And 
I'm  tired  of  them.  That  was  one  reason  why 
I  left  Heaven.  And  this  robe .  .  .  (He  stands 
up,  viewing  his  garment  with  disapproval) 
Have  you  an  extra  suit  of  clothes  you  could 
lend  me? 
JIMMY  (reflectively) 

Yes.  I  think  I  have  some  things  that  might  fit. 
(The  Angel  waits)  Do  you  want  them  now? 
I'll  look.  (He  goes  into  the  bed-room.  The 
Angel  looks  at  Annabelle,  until  his  gaze  be 
comes  insupportable  and  she  covers  her  eyes. 
Then  he  comes  over  to  her  side.) 
150 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

THE  ANGEL  (gravely) 

I  am  very  much  afraid  of  you.    (He  takes  her 

hands  in  his.) 
ANNABELLE  (smiling) 

One  would  never  guess  it! 

THE    ANGEL 

I  am  more  afraid  of  you  than  I  was  of  God. 
But  even  though  I  fear  you,  I  must  come  close 
to  you,  and  touch  you.  The  strange,  new  emo 
tion  is  like  fire  in  my  veins.  This  world  has 
become  beautiful  to  me  because  you  are  in 
it.  I  want  to  stay  here  so  that  I  may  be  with 
you . .  . 

ANNABELLE 

(shaken,  but  doubting)     For  how  long? 
THE   ANGEL 

Forever . . . 

ANNABELLE 

(in  his  arms,  surrendering  to  the  word)  Dar 
ling! 

THE    ANGEL 

I  am  so  ignorant  1  There  is  something  I  want 
to  do  right  now,  only  I  do  not  know  how  to 
go  about  it  properly.  (He  bends  shyly  toward 
her  lips.) 

ANNABELLE 

I  will  teach  you.     (She  kisses  him.) 

THE    ANGEL 

Heaven  was  nothing  to  this.  (They  kiss  again. 
Enter  Jimmy,  with  an  old  suit  of  clothes  over 
his  arm.  He  pauses  in  dumbfounderment.  At 
last  he  regains  his  voice.) 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


JIMMY 

Well!  (They  look  up.  Neither  of  them  is 
perturbed.) 

THE  ANGEL  (blandly) 

Has  something  happened  to  annoy  you? 
(Jimmy  shakes  the  clothes  at  him  in  an  outraged 
gesture)  Oh,  my  new  costume.  Thank  you 
so  much !  (He  takes  them  gratefully.) 

JIMMY 

(bitterly,  to  Annabelle)  I  suppose  I've  no  right 
to  complain.  You  can  make  love  to  anybody 
you  like.  In  fact,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  I  predicted  this  very  thing.  I  said  you'd  fall 
in  love  with  the  next  man  you  met.  So  it's  off 
with  the  old  love,  and .  .  . 

ANNABELLE  (calmly)^ 

I  have  never  been  in  love  before. 
JIMMY 

The  fickleness  of  women  is  notorious.  -It  is  ex 
ceeded  only  by  their  mendacity.  But  Angels 
have  up  to  this  time  stood  in  good  repute.  Your 
conduct,  sir,  is  scandalous.  I  am  amazed  at  you ! 

THE   ANGEL 

It  may  be  scandalous,  but  it  should  not  amaze 
you.  It  has  happened  too  often  before.  I 
could  quote  you  many  texts  from  learned  theo 
logical  works.  "And  the  sons  of  God  looked 
at  the  daughters  of  men  and  saw  that  they  Were 
fair."  But  even  if  it  were  as  unusual  as  you 
imagine,  that  would  not  deter  me. 
JIMMY 

You  are  an  unscrupulous  wretch.    If  these  are 
the  manners  of  Heaven,  I  am  glad  it  is  so  far 
152 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

away,  and  means  of  communication  so  difficult. 
A  few  more  of  you  would  corrupt  the  morals 
of  five  continents.  You  are  utterly  depraved — 
Here!  What  are  you  doing? 

THE   ANGEL 

I  am  taking  off  my  robes,  so  as  to  put  on  my 
new  clothes. 

JIMMY 

Spare  the  common  decencies  at  least.  Go  in 
the  other  room. 

THE   ANGEL 

Certainly,  if  that  is  the  custom  here.  (With  the 
clothes  over  his  arm,  he  goes  into  the  bed 
room.) 

JIMMY  (sternly) 

And  now  tell  me,  what  do  you  mean  by  this  ? 

ANNABELLE  (simply) 

We  are  in  love. 
JIMMY 

Do  you  mean  to  say  you  would  throw  me  over 
for  that  fellow? 

ANNABELLE 

Why  not? 
JIMMY 

What  good  is  he  ?    All  he  can  do  is  sing  hymns. 

In  three  months  he'll  be  a  tramp. 

ANNABELLE 

I  don't  care.     And  he  won't  be  a  tramp.     I'll 
look  after  him. 
JIMMY  (sneeringly) 

The  maternal  instinct !  Well,  take  care  of  him 
if  you  like.  But  of  course  you  know  that  in  six 
weeks  he'll  fall  in  love  with  somebody  else? 

153 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

ANNABELLE 

No  he  won't.  Fm  sure  that  I  am  the  only  girl 
in  the  world  to  him. 

JIMMY 

Of  course  you're  the  only  girl  in  the  world  to 
him — now.  You're  the  only  one  he's  ever  seen. 
But  wait  till  he  sees  the  others!  Six  weeks? 
On  second  thought  I  make  it  three  days.  Im 
mortal  love !  (He  laughs.) 

ANNABELLE 

What  difference  does  it  make?  You  don't  un 
derstand.  Whether  it  lasts  a  day  or  a  year, 
while  it  lasts  it  will  be  immortal.  ( The  Angel 
enters,  dressed  in  Jimmy's  old  clothes,  and  car 
rying  his  wings  in  his  hands.  He  seems  ex 
hilarated.) 

THE    ANGEL 

How  do  I  look? 

JIMMY 

It  is  customary  to  wear  one's  tie  tucked  inside 
the  vest. 

THE    ANGEL 

(flinging  the  ends  of  the  gorgeous  necktie  over 
his  shoulder)  No !  Though  I  have  become  a 
man,  I  do  not  without  some  regret  put  on  the 
dull  garb  of  mortality.  I  would  not  have  my 
form  lose  all  its  original  brightness.  Even  so 
it  is  the  excess  of  glory  obscured. 

ANNABELLE 

(coming  over  to  him)  You  are  quite  right, 
darling.  (She'  tucks  it  inside  his  vest.) 

THE    ANGEL 

Thank  you,  beloved.     And  now  these  wings! 
154 


THE  ANGEL  INTRUDES 

Take  them,  and  burn  them  with  your  own  sweet 
hands,  so  that  I  can  never  leave  you,  even  if  I 
would. 

ANNABELLE 

No  I  I  would  rather  put  them  away  for  you  in 
a  closet,  so  that  you  can  go  and  look  at  them  any 
time  you  want  to,  and  see  that  you  have  the 
means  of  freedom  ready  to  your  hand.  I  shall 
never  hold  you  against  your  will.  I  do  not  want 
to  burn  your  wings.  I  really  don't!  But  if 
you  insist.  .  .  (She  takes  the  wings  and  ap 
proaches  the  grate.) 
JIMMY 

(to  the  Angel)  Don't  let  her  do  it!  Fool! 
You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing.  Listen  to 
me !  You  think  that  she  is  wonderful — superior 
— divine.  It  is  only  natural.  There  are  mo 
ments  when  I  have  thought  so  myself.  But  I 
know  why  I  thought  so,  and  you  have  yet  to 
learn.  Keep  your  wings,  my  friend,  against 
the  day  of  your  awakening — the  day  when  the 
glamour  of  sex  has  vanished,  and  you  see  in 
her,  as  you  will  see,  an  inferior  being,  with  a 
weak  body,  a  stunted  mind,  devoid  of  creative 
power,  almost  devoid  of  imagination,  utterly 
lacking  in  critical  capacity — a  being  who  does 
not  know  how  to  work,  nor  how  to  talk,  nor 
even  how  to  play!  (Annabelle,  putting  down 
the  wings  beside  the  grate,  stares  at  him  in 
speechless  anger.) 
THE  ANGEL 

Sir!  Do  you  refer  in  those  vulgar  and  insult 
ing  terms  to  the  companion  of  my  soul,  the  de- 

155 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

sire  of  my  heart,  the  perfect  lover  whose  lips 
have  kindled  my  dull  sense  to  ecstacy? 

JIMMY 

I  do.  Remember  that  I  know  her  better  than 
you  do,  young  man.  Take  my  advice  and  leave 
her  alone.  Even  now  it  is  not  too  late !  Save 
yourself  from  this  folly  while  there  is  time ! 

THE   ANGEL 

Never ! 

JIMMY 

Then  take  these  tickets,  and  I  hope  I  never  see 
either  of  you  again !     (He  holds  out  the  tickets. 
Annabelle,  after  a  pause,  steps  forward  and 
takes  them.) 
ANNABELLE 

That  is  really  sweet  of  you,  Jimmy!      (The 
blast  of  an  auto  horn  is  heard  outside.) 
JIMMY  (bitterly) 

And  there's  my  taxi.     Take  that,  too. 

THE    ANGEL 

Farewell!  (He  opens  the  door.  Annabelle,  at 
his  side,  turns  and  blows  Jimmy  a  kiss.  Stonily 
Jimmy  watches  them  go  out.  Then  he  picks  up 
his  suitcase  and  goes,  with  an  air  of  complete 
finality,  into  the  other  room.  There  is  a  mo 
ment's  silence,  and  then  the  door  opens  softly, 
and  the  Angel  looks  in,  enters  surreptitiously, 
seizes  up  the  wings,  and  with  them  safely 
clasped  to  his  bosom,  vanishes  again  through 
the  door.) 

[CURTAIN] 


156 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

A  PLAY 
BY  EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 


Copyright,  19     , 

BY   BONI  &  LlVERIGHT,    INC. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are 
strictly  reserved  by  the  author.  Applications  for  permission  to 
produce  the  play  should  be  made  to  the  author,  care  of  Boni  & 
Liveright,  Inc.,  105  West  Fortieth  St.,  New  York. 

Reprinted  from  "Beyond  the  Horizon,"  by  permission  of  the 
author. 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

As  Produced  at  the  Playwrights'  Theater 
New  York  City 

YANK,  George  Cram  Cook 

DRISCOLL,  William  Stuart 

COCKY,  Edward  J.  Ballantine 

DAVIS,  Harry  Kemp 

SCOTTY,  Frank  Shay 

OLESON,  B.  J.  O.  Nordfeldt 

A  NORWEGIAN,  Donald  Cor  ley 

SMITTY,  Lew  Parr  is  h 

IVAN,  Francis  Buzzell 

THE  CAPTAIN,  Henry  Marion  Hall 

THE  SECOND  MATE,  Eugene  G.  O'Neill 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

SCENE  :  The  seamen's  forecastle  on  a  British 
tramp  steamer — an  irregular-shaped  compart 
ment,  the  sides  of  which  almost  meet  at  the 
far  end  to  form  a  triangle.  Sleeping  bunks 
about  six  feet  long,  ranged  three  deep,  with  a 
space  of  three  feet  separating  the  upper  from 
the  lower,  are  built  against  the  sides.  On  the 
right  above  the  bunks  three  or  four  port  holes 
can  be  seen.  In  front  of  the  bunks,  rough, 
wooden  benches.  Over  the  bunks  on  the  left, 
a  lamp  in  a  bracket.  In  the  left  foreground,  a 
doorway.  On  the  floor  near  it,  a  pail  with  a 
tin  dipper.  Oilskins  are  hanging  from  a  hook 
near  the  doorway. 

The  far  side  of  the  forecastle  is  so  narrow  that  it 
contains  only  one  series  of  bunks. 

In  under  the  bunks  a  glimpse  can  be  had  of  sea- 
chests,  suitcases,  sea-boots,  etc.,  jammed  in  in- 
discrimately. 

At  regular  intervals  of  a  minute  or  so  the  blast  of 
the  steamer's  whistle  can  be  heard  above  all 
the  other  sounds. 

Five  men  are  sitting  on  the  benches  talking.  They 
are  dressed  in  dirty,  patched  suits  of  dungaree, 
flannel  shirts,  and  all  are  in  their  stocking  feet. 
Four  of  the  men  are  pulling  on  pipes  and  the 
air  is  heavy  with  rancid  tobacco  smoke.  Sit 
ting  on  the  top  bunk  in  the  left  foreground  a 

159 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

blonde  Norwegian  is  softly  playing  some  folk 
song  on  a  battered  accordion.  He  stops  from 
time  to  time  to  listen  to  the  conversation. 

In  the  lower  bunk  in  the  rear  a  dark-haired,  mid 
dle-aged  man  is  lying  apparently  asleep.  One 
of  his  arms  is  stretched  limply  over  the  side  of 
the  bunk.  His  face  is  very  pale  and  drops  of 
clammy  perspiration  glisten  on  his  forehead. 

It  is  nearmg  the  end  of  the  dog  watch — about  ten 
minutes  to  eight  in  the  evening. 

COCKY 

(a  weazened  runt  of  a  man.  He  is  telling  a 
story.  The  others  are  listening  with  amused, 
incredulous  faces,  interrupting  him  at  the  end 
of  each  sentence  with  loud,  derisive  guffaws) 
Maikin'  love  to  me,  she  was!  It's  Gawd's 
truth !  A  bloomin'  nigger !  Greased  all  over 
with  coconut  oil,  she  was.  Gawd  blimey,  *I 
couldn't  stand  'er.  Bloody  old  cow,  I  says; 
and  with  that  I  fetched  'er  a  biff  on. the  ear  wot 
knocked  'er  silly,  an' —  (He  is  interrupted  by 
a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  others.) 

DAVIS 

(a  middle-aged  man  with  brown  hair  and  mus 
tache)  You're  a  liar,  Cocky. 

SCOTT Y 

(a  dark  young  fellow)  Ho-ho!  Ye  werr 
neverr  in  New  Guinea  in  yourr  life,  I'm  think- 
in'. 

OLESON 

(a  Swede  with  an  enormous  blonde  mustache — 
1 60 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

with  ponderous  sarcasm)  Yust  tink  of  it !  You 
say  she  wass  a  cannibal,  Cocky? 

DRISCOLL 

(a  red-haired  giant  with  the  battered  features 
of  a  prizefighter)  How  cud  ye  doubt  ut,  Ole- 
son?  A  quane  av  the  naygurs  she  musta  been, 
surely.  Who  else  wud  think  herself  aqual  to 
fallin'  in  love  with  a  beauthiful,  divil-may-care 
rake  av  a  man  the  loike  av  Cocky?  (A  burst 
of  laughter  from  the  crowd.) 

COCKY  (indignantly) 

Gawd  strike  me  dead  if  it  ain't  true,  every 
bleedin'  word  of  it.  'Appened  ten  year  ago 
come  Christmas. 

SCOTTY 

'Twas  a  Christmas  dinner  she  had  her  eyes  on. 

DAVIS 

He'd  a  been  a  tough  old  bird. 

DRISCOLL 

'Tis  lucky  for  f)oth  av  ye  ye  escaped;  for  the 
quane  av  the  cannibal  isles  wad'a  died  av  the 
belly  ache  the  day  afther  Christmas,  divil  a 
doubt  av  ut.  (The  laughter  at  this  is  long  and 
loud.) 
COCKY  (sullenly) 

Blarsted  fat'eads!  (The  sick  man  in  the  lower 
bunk  in  the  rear  groans  and  moves  restlessly. 
There  is  a  hushed  silence.  All  the  men  turn 
and  stare  at  him.) 

DRISCOLL 

Ssshh!     (In  a  hushed  whisper)    We'd  best  not 
be  talkin'  so  loud  and  him  tryin'  to  have  a  bit  av 
a  sleep.     (He  tiptoes  softly  to  the  side  of  the 
161 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

bunk)  Yank!  You'd  be  wantin'  a  drink  av 
wather,  maybe?  (Yank  does  not  reply.  Dris- 
coll  bends  over  and  looks  at  him)  It's  asleep 
he  is,  sure  enough.  His  breath  is  chokin'  in 
his  throat  loike  wather  gurglin'  in  a  poipe.  (He 
comes  back  quietly  and  sits  down.  All  are  si 
lent,  avoiding  each  other's  eyes.) 
COCKY 

(after  a  pause)  Pore  devil !  It's  over  the  side 
for  'im,  Gawd  'elp  'im. 

DRISCOLL 

Stop  your  croakin' !     He's  not  dead  yet  and, 
praise  God,  he'll  have  many  a  long  day  yet  be 
fore  him. 
SCOTTY 

(shaking  his  head  doubtfully)  He's  baad,  mon, 
he's  verry  baad. 

DAVIS 

Lucky  he's  alive.     Many  a  man's  light  woulda 

gone  out  after  a  fall  like  that. 
OLESON 

You  saw  him  fall? 

DAVIS 

Right  next  to  him.  He  and  me  was  goin'  down 
in  Number  Two  hold  to  do  some  chippin'.  He 
puts  his  leg  over  careless-like  and  misses  the 
ladder  and  plumps  straight  down  to.  the  bot 
tom.  I  was  scared  to  look  over  for  a  minute, 
and  then  I  heard  him  groan  and  I  scuttled  down 
after  him.  He  was  hurt  bad  inside,  for  the 
blood  was  drippin'  from  the  side  of  his  mouth. 
He  was  groanin'  hard,  but  he  never  let  a  word 
out  of  him. 

162 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

COCKY 

An'  you  blokes  remember  when  we  'auled  'im 
in  'ere  ?  Oh  'ell,  'e  says,  oh  'ell — like  that,  and 
nothink  else. 

OLESON 

Did  the  captain  know  where  he  iss  hurted? 

COCKY 

That  silly  oP  josser!  Wot  the  'ell  would  'e 
know  abaht  anythink? 

SCOTTY  (scornfully) 

He  fiddles  in  his  mouth  wi'  a  bit  of  glass. 

DRISCOLL  (angrily) 

The  divil's  own  life  ut  is  to  be  out  on  the  lonely 
sea  wid  nothin'  betune  you  and  a  grave  in  the 
ocean,  but  a  spindle-shanked,  grey-whiskered 
auld  fool  the  loike  av  him.  'Twas  enough  to 
make  a  saint  shwear  to  see  him  wid  his  gold 
watch  in  his  hand,  tryin'  to  look  as  wise  as  an 
owl  on  a  tree,  and  all  the  toime  he  not  knowin' 
whether  'twas  cholery  or  the  barber's  itch  was 
the  matther  wid  Yank. 

SCOTTY,  (sardonically) 

He  gave  him  a  dose  of  salts,  na  doot? 

DRISCOLL 

Divil  a  thing  he  gave  him  at  all,  but  looked  in 
the  book  he  had  wid  him,  and  shook  his  head, 
and  walked  out  widout  sayin'  a  word,  the  sec 
ond  mate  afther  him  no  wiser  than  himself, 
God's  curse  on  the  two  av  thim ! 

COCKY 

(after  a  pause)  Yank  was  a  good  shipmate, 
pore  beggar.  Lent  me  four  bob  in  Noo  Yark, 
fe  did. 

163 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

DRISCOLL  (warmly) 

A  good  shipmate  he  was  and  is — none  betther. 
Ye  said  no  more  than  the  truth,  Cocky.  Five 
years  and  more  ut  is  since  first  I  shipped  wid 
him,  and  we've  stuck  together  iver  since  through 
good  luck  and  bad.  Fights  we've  had,  God 
help  us,  but  'twas  only  when  we'd  a  bit  av  drink 
taken,  and  we  always  shook  hands  the  nixt 
mornin'.  Whativer  was  his  was  mine,  and 
many's  the  toime  I'd  a  been  on  the  beach  or 
worse  but  for  him.  And  now —  (His  voice 
trembles  as  he  fghts  to  control  his  emotion) 
Divil  take  me  if  I'm  not  startin'  to  blubber  loike 
an  auld  woman,  and  he  not  dead  at  all,  but 
goin'  to  live  many  a  long  year  yet,  maybe. 

DAVIS 

The  sleep'll  do  him  good.     He  seems  better 

now. 
OLESON 

If  he  wude  eat  something — 
DRISCOLL 

Wud  ye  have  him  be  eatin'  in  his  condishun? 

Sure  it's  hard  enough  on  the  rest  av  us  wid 

nothin'  the  matther  wid  our  insides  to  be  stom- 

achin'  the  skoff  on  this  rusty  lime-juicer. 
SCOTTY  (indignantly^ 

It's  a  starvation  ship. 
DAVIS 

Plenty  o'  work  and  no  food — and  the  owners 
ridin'  around  in  carriages ! 
OLESON 

Hash,    hash!     Stew,    stew!     Marmalade,    py 
damn!     (He  spits  disgustedly.) 
164 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

COCKY 

Bloody  swill!     Fit  only  for  swine  is  wot  I  say. 
DRISCOLL 

And  the  dishwather  they  disguise  wid  the  name 
av  tea !  And  the  putty  they  call  bread !  My 
belly  feels  loike  I'd  swalleyed  a  dozen  rivets  at 
the  thought  av  ut !  And  sea-biscuit  that'd  break 
the  teeth  av  a  lion  if  he  had  the  misfortune  to 
take  a  bite  at  one !  (Unconsciously  they  have 
all  raised  their  voices,  forgetting  the  sick  man 
in  their  sailor's  delight  at  finding  something  to 
grumble  about.) 
THE  NORWEGIAN 

(stops  playing  accordion — says  slowly)  And 
rot-ten  po-tay-toes!  (He  starts  in  playing 
again.  The  sick  man  gives  a  groan  of  pain.) 

DRISCOLL 

(7.  ,ding  up  his  hand)  Shut  your  mouths,  all 
av  you.  'Tis  a  hell  av  a  thing  for  us  to  be  com- 
plainin'  about  our  guts,  and  a  sick  man  maybe 
dyin'  listenin'  to  us.  (Gets  up  and  shakes  his 
fist  at  the  Norwegian)  God  stiffen  you,  ye 
square-head  scut!  Put  down  that  .organ  av 
yours  or  I'll  break  your  ugly  face  for  you.  Is 
that  banshee  schreechin'  fit  music  for  a  sick 
man?  (The  Norwegian  puts  his  accordion  in 
the  bunk  and  lays  back  and  closes  his  eyes. 
Driscoll  goes  over  and  stands  beside  Yank. 
The  steamer's  whistle  sounds  particularly  loud 
in  the  silence.) 

DAVIS 

Damn  this  fog!  (Reaches  in  under  a  bunk  and 
yanks  out  a  pair  of  seaboots  which  he  pulls  on) 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

My  lookout  next,  too.  Must  be  nearly  eight 
bells,  boys.  (With  the  exception  of  Oleson,  all 
the  men  sitting  up  put  on  oilskins,  sou'  westers, 
seaboots,  etc.,  in  preparation  for  the  watch  on 
deck.  Oleson  crawls  into  a  lower  bunk  on  the 
right.) 
SCOTTY 

My  wheel. 
OLESON  (disgustedly) 

Nothin'  but  yust  dirty  weather  all  dis  voyage. 

I  yust  can't  sleep  when  weestle  blow.      (He 

turns  his  back  to  the  light  and  is  soon  fast  asleep 

and  snoring.) 
SCOTTY 

If  this  fog  keeps  up,  I'm  tellin'  ye,  we'll  no  be 

in  Cardiff  for  a  week  or  more. 

DRISCOLL 

'Twas  just  such  a  night  as  this  the  auld  Dover 
wint  down.  Just  about  this  toime  it  was,  too, 
and  we  all  sittin'  round  in  the  fo'castle,  Yank 
beside  me,  whin  all  av  a  suddint  we  heard  a 
great  slitherin'  crash,  and  the  ship  heeled  over 
til  we  was  all  in  a  heap  on  wan  side.  What 
came  afther  I  disremimber  exactly,  except  'twas 
a  hard  shift  to  get  the  boats  over  the  side  be 
fore  the  auld  teakittle  sank.  Yank  was  in  the 
same  boat  wid  me,  and  sivin  morthal  days  we 
drifted  wid  scarcely  a  drop  of  wather  or  a  bite 
to  chew  on.  T'was  Yank  here  that  held  me 
down  whin  I  wanted  to  jump  into  the  ocean, 
roarin'  mad  wid  the  thirst.  Picked  up  we  were 
on  the  same  day  wid  only  Yank  in  his  senses, 
and  him  steerin'  the  boat. 
166 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

COCKY  (protestingly) 

Blimey,  but  you're  a  cheerful  blighter,  Dris- 
coll!  Talkin'  abaht  shipwrecks  in  this  'ere 
blushin'  fog.  (Yank  groans  and  stirs  uneasily, 
opening  his  eyes.  Driscoll  hurries  to  his  side.) 

DRISCOLL 

Are  you  feelin'  any  betther,  Yank? 

YANK 

(in  a  weak  voice)     No. 
DRISCOLL 

Sure  you  must  be.     You  look  as  sthrong  as  an 

ox.     (Appealing  to  the  others)     Am  I  tellin' 

him  a  lie? 
DAVIS 

The  sleep's  done  you  good. 
COCKY 

You'll  be  'avin'  your  pint  of  beer  in  Cardiff  this 

day  week. 

SCOTTY 

And  fish  and  chips,  mon  I 

YANK  (peevishly) 

What're  yuh  all  liein'  fur?     D'yuh  think  I'm 

scared  to —   (He  hesitates  as  if  frightened  by  the 
word  he  is  about  to  say.) 

DRISCOLL 

Don't  be  thinkin'  such  things !  (  The  ship's  bell 
is  heard  heavily  tolling  eight  times.  From  the 
forecastle  head  above,  the  voice  of  the  lookout 
rises  in  a  long  wail:  Aaalls  well.  The  men 
look  uncertainly  at  Yank  as  if  undecided 
whether  to  say  good-bye  or  not.) 

YANK 

(in  an  agony  of  fear)     Don't  leave  me,  Drisc ! 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

I'm  dyin',  I  tell  yuh.  I  won't  stay  here  alone 
with  everyone  snorin'.  I'll  go  out  on  deck.  (He 
makes  a  feeble  attempt  to  rise,  but  sinks  back 
with  a  sharp  groan.  His  breath  comes  in 
wheezy  gasps)  Don't  leave  me,  Drisc !  (His 
face  grows  white  and  his  head  falls  back  with  a 
jerk.) 

DRISCOLL 

Don't  be  worryin',  Yank.  I'll  not  move  a  step 
out  av  here — and  let  that  divil  av  a  bosun  curse 
his  black  head  off.  You  speak  a  word  to  the 
bosun,  Cocky.  Tell  him  that  Yank  is  bad  took 
and  I'll  be  stayin'  wid  him  a  while  yet. 

COCKY 

Right-o.  (Cocky,  Davis,  and  Scotty  go  out 
quietly.) 

COCKY  " 

(from  the  alleyway)  Gawd  blimey,  the  fog's 
thick  as  soup. 

DRISCOLL 

Are  ye  satisfied  now,  Yank?  (Receiving  no  an 
swer,  he  bends  over  the  still  form)  He's 
fainted,  God  help  him !  (He  gets  a  tin  dipper 
from  the  bucket,  and  bathes  Yank's  forehead 
with  the  water.  Yank  shudders  and  opens  his 
eyes.) 

YANK  (slowly) 

I  thought  I  was  goin'  then.  Wha'  did  yuh 
wanta  wake  me  up  fur? 

DRISCOLL  (with  forced  gaiety) 
Is  it  wishful  for  heaven  ye  are? 

YANK  (gloomily) 
Hell,  I  guess. 

168 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 


DRISCOLL 

(crossing  himself  involuntarily)  For  the  love 
av  the  saints,  don't  be  talkin'  loike  that!  You'd 
give  a  man  the  creeps.  It's  chippin'  rust  on 
deck  you'll  be  in  a  day  or  two  wid  the  best  av 
us.  (Yank  does  not  answer,  but  closes  his  eyes 
wearily.  The  seaman  who  has  been  on  lookout, 
a  young  Englishman,  comes  in  and  takes  of  his 
dripping  oilskins.  While  he  is  doing  this  the 
man  whose  turn  at  the  wheel  has  been  relieved 
enters.  He  is  a  dark,  burly  fellow  with  a  round, 
stupid  face.  The  Englishman  steps  softly  over 
to  Driscoll.  The  other  crawls  into  a  lower 
bunk.) 

THE  ENGLISHMAN  (whispering) 
How's  Yank? 

DRISCOLL 

Betther.     Ask  him  yourself.     He's  awake. 

YANK 

I'm  all  right,  Smitty. 
SMITTY 

Glad  to  hear  it,  Yank.  (He  crawls  to  an  upper 
bunk  and  is  soon  asleep.  The  stupid-faced  sea 
man  who  came  in  after  Smitty  twists  his  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  sick  man)  You  feel  gude, 
Jank? 

YANK  (wearily) 
Yes,  Ivan. 

IVAN 

Dot's  gude.     (He  rolls  over  on  his  side  and 
falls  asleep  immediately.) 
YANK 

(after  a  pause,  broken  only  by  snores — with  a 
169 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

bitter  laugh)  Good-bye  and  good  luck  to  the 
lot  of  you ! 

DRISCOLL 

Is  ut  painin'  you  again? 

YANK 

It  hurts  like  hell — here.  (He  points  to  the 
lower  part  of  his  chest  on  the  left  side)  I  guess 
my  old  pump's  busted.  Ooohh !  (A  spasm  of 
pain  contracts  his  pale  features.  He  presses 
his  hand  to  his  side  and  writhes  on  the  thin  mat 
tress  of  his  bunk.  The  perspiration  stands  out 
in  beads  on  his  forehead.) 

DRISCOLL  (terrified) 

Yank!  Yank!  What  is  ut?  (Jumping  to  his 
feet)  I'll  run  for  the  captain.  (He  starts  for 
the  doorway.) 

YANK 

(sitting  up  in  his  bunk,  frantic  with  fear)  Don't 
leave  me,  Drisc !  For  God's  sake,  don't  leave 
me  alone !  (He  leans  over  the  side  of  his  bunk 
and  spits.  Driscoll  comes  back  to  him)  Blood ! 
Ugh! 

DRISCOLL 

Blood  again!     I'd  best  be  gettin'  the  captain. 

YANK 

No,  no,  don't  leave  me!  If  yuh  do  I'll  git  up 
and  follow  yuh.  I  ain't  no  coward,  but  I'm 
scared  to  stay  here  with  all  of  them  asleep  and 
snorin'.  (Driscoll,  not  knowing  what  to  do, 
sits  down  on  the  bench  beside  him.  He  grows 
calmer  and  sinks  back  on  the  mattress)  The 
captain  can't  do  me  no  good — yuh  know  it  your 
self.  The  pain  ain't  so  bad  now,  but  I  thought 
170 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

it  had  me  then.     It  was  like  a  buzz-saw  cuttin' 
into  me. 
DRISCOLL  (fiercely) 

God  blarst  ut!  (The  captain  and  the  second 
mate  of  the  steamer  enter  the  forecastle.  The 
captain  is  an  old  man  with  grey  mustache  and 
whiskers.  The  mate  is  clean  shaven  and  mid 
dle-aged.  Both  are  dressed  in  simple  blue  uni 
forms.) 

THE    CAPTAIN 

(taking  out  his  watch  and  feeling  Yank's  pulse) 

And  how  is  the  sick  man? 
YANK  (feebly) 

All  right,  sir. 

THE    CAPTAIN 

And  the  pain  in  the  chest? 

YANK 

It  still  hurtSj  sir;  worse  than  ever. 

THE    CAPTAIN 

(taking  a  thermometer  from  his  pocket  and 
putting  it  in  Yank's  mouth)  Here,  be  sure  and 
keep  this  in  under  your  tongue— not  over  it. 

THE  MATE 

(after  a  pause)  Isn't  this  your  watch  on  deck, 
Driscoll? 

DRISCOLL    ' 

Yes,  sorr;  but  Yank  was  fearin'  to  be  alone, 
and — 

THE    CAPTAIN 

That's  all  right,  Driscoll. 

DRISCOLL 

Thank  ye,  sorr. 

171 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

THE   CAPTAIN 

(stares  at  his  watch  for  a  moment  or  so;  then 
takes  the  thermometer  from  Yank's  mouth  and 
goes  to  the  lamp  to  read  it.  His  expression 
grows  very  grave.  He  beckons  the  mate  and 
Driscoll  to  the  corner  near  the  doorway.  Yank 
watches  them  furtively.  The  captain  speaks  in 
a  low  voice  to  the  mate)  Way  up,  both  of  them. 
(To  Driscoll)  Has  he  been  spitting  blood 
again? 

DRISCOLL 

Not  much  for  the  hour  just  past,  sorr;  but  be 
fore  that — 

THE    CAPTAIN 

A  great  deal? 

DRISCOLL 

Yes,  sorr. 

THE    CAPTAIN 

He  hasn't  eaten  anything? 

DRISCOLL 

No,  sorr. 

THE    CAPTAIN 

Did  he  drink  that  medicine  I  sent  him? 
DRISCOLL 

Yes,  sorr;  but  it  didn't  stay  down. 

THE    CAPTAIN 

(shaking  his  head)  I'm  afraid — he's  very 
weak.  I  can't  do  anything  else  for  him.  It's 
too  serious  for  me.  If  this  had  only  happened 
a  week  later  we'd  be  in  Cardiff  in  time 
DRISCOLL 

Plaze  help  him  someway,  sorr! 

172 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

THE  CAPTAIN  (impatiently) 

But,  my  good  man,  I'm  not  a  doctor.  (More 
kindly  as  he  sees  Driscoll's  grief)  You  and  he 
have  been  shipmates  a  long  time? 

DRISCOLL 

Five  years  and  more,  sorr. 

THE    CAPTAIN 

I  see.  Well,  don't  let  him  move.  Keep  him 
quiet  and  we'll  hope  for  the  best.  I'll  read  the 
matter  up  and  send  him  some  medicine — some 
thing  to  ease  the  pain,  anyway.  (Goes  over  to 
Yank)  Keep  up  your  courage.  You'll  be  bet 
ter  to-morrow.  (He  breaks  down  lamely  be 
fore  Yank's  steady  gaze)  We'll  pull  you 
through  all  right — and — hm — well — coming, 
Robinson  ?  Dammit !  (He  goes  out  hurriedly, 
followed  by  the  mate.) 
DRISCOLL 

(trying  to  conceal  his  anxiety)  Didn't  I  tell 
you  you  wasn't  half  as  sick  as  you  thought  you 
was.  The  captain'll  have  you  on  deck  cursin' 
and  swearin'  loike  a  trooper  before  the  week 
is  out. 

YANK 

Don't  lie,  Drisc.  I  heard  what  he  said,  and  if 
I  didn't  I  c'd  tell  by  the  way  I  feel.  I  know 
what's  goin'  to  happen.  I'm  going  to —  (He 
hesitates  for  a  second — then  resolutely)  I'm 
goin'  to  die,  that's  what,  and  the  sooner  the 
better ! 
DRISCOLL  (wildly) 

No,  and  be  damned  to  you,  you're  not.  I'll  not 
let  you. 

173 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

YANK 

It  ain't  no  use,  Drisc.  I  ain't  got  a  chance ;  but 
I  ain't  scared.  Gimme  a  drink  of  water,  will 
yuh,  Drisc?  My  throat's  burnin'  up.  (Drls- 
coll  brings  the  dipper  full  of  water  and  supports 
his  head  while  he  drinks  in  great  gulps.) 
DRISCOLL 

(seeking  vainly  for  some  word  of  comfort) 
Are  ye  feelin'  more  aisy-loike  now? 

YANK 

Yes — now — when  I  know  it's  all  up.  (A,  pause) 
You  mustn't  take  it  so  hard,  Drisc.  I  was  just 
thinkin'  it  ain't  as  bad  as  people  think — dyin'. 
I  ain't  never  took  much  sttfck  in  the  truck  them 
sky-pilots  preach.  I  ain't  never  had  religion; 
but  I  know  whatever  it  is  what  comes  after  it 
can't  be  no  worser'n  this.  I  don't  like  to  leave 
you,  Drisc,  but — that's  all. 

DRISCOLL 

(with  a  groan)     Lad,  lad,  don't  be  talkin' ! 

YANK 

This  sailor  life  ain't  much  to  cry  about  leavin' 
— just  one  ship  after  another — hard  work,  small 
pay,  and  bum  grub ;  and  when  we  git  into  port, 
just  a  drunk,  endin'  up  in  a  fight,  and  all  your 
money  gone,  and  then  ship  away  again.  Never 
meetin'  no  nice  people;  never  gittin'  outa  sailor 
town,  hardly,  in  any  port;  travelin'  all  over  the 
world  and  never  seein'  none  of  it;  without  no 
one  to  care  whether  you're  alive  or  dead.  (With 
a  bitter  smile)  There  ain't  much  in  all  that 
that'd  make  yuh  sorry  to  lose  it,  Drisc. 
DRISCOLL  (gloomily) 

It's  a  hell  av  a  life — the  sea. 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

YANK  (musingly) 

It  must  be  great  to  stay  on  dry  land  all  your 
life  and  have  a  farm,  with  a  house  of  your  own, 
with  cows  and  pigs  and  chickens,  way  in  the 
middle  of  the  land  where  yuh'd  never  smell  the 
sea  or  see  a  ship.  It  must  be  great  to  have  a 
wife,  and  kids  to  play  with  at  night  after  supper 
when  your  work  is  done.  It  must  be  great 
to  have  a  home  of  your  own,  Drisc. 

DRISCOLL 

(with  a  great  sigh)  It  must,  surely ;  but  what's 
the  use  av  thinkin'  av  ut?  Such  things  are  not 
for  the  loikes  av  us. 

YANK 

Sea-farin'  is  all  right  when  you're  young  and 
don't  care ;  but  we  ain't  chickens  no  more,  and 
somehow,  I  dunno,  this  last  year  has  seemed 
rotten,  and  I've  had  a  hunch  I'd  quit — with  you, 
of  course — and  we'd  save  our  coin,  and  go  to 
Canada  or  Argentine  or  some  place  and  git  a 
farm,  just  a  small  one,  just  enough  to  live  on. 
I  never  told  yuh  this  'cause  I  thought  yuh'd 
laugh  at  me. 

DRISCOLL  (enthusiastically) 

Laugh  at  you,  is  ut  ?  When  I'm  havin'  the  same 
thoughts  myself,  toime  afther  toime.  It's  a 
grand  idea,  and  we'll  be  doin'  ut  sure  if  you'll 
stop  your  crazy  notions — about — about  bein' 
so  sick. 

YANK  (sadly) 

Too  late.  We  shouldn't  a  made  this  trip,  and 
then —  How'd  all  the  fog  git  in  here? 

DRISCOLL 
Fog? 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

YANK 

Everythin'  looks  misty.  Must  be  my  eyes  git- 
tin'  weak,  I  guess.  What  was  we  talkin'  of  a 
minute  ago?  Oh  yes,  a  farm.  It's  too  late. 
(His  mind  wandering)  Argentine,  did  I  say? 
D'yuh  remember  the  times  we've  had  in  Buenos 
Aires?  The  moving  pictures  in  Barracas? 
Some  class  to  them,  d'yuh  remember? 
DRISCOLL 

(with  satisfaction)  I  do  that;  and  so  does  the 
piany  player.  He'll  not  be  forgettin'  the  black 
eye* I  gave  him  in  a  hurry. 

YANK 

Remember  the  time  we  was  there  on  the  beach 
and  had  to  go  to  Tommy  Moore's  boarding- 
house  to  git  shipped?  And  he  sold  us  rotten 
oilskins  and  seaboots  full  of  holes,  and  shipped 
us  on  a  skysail  yarder  round  the  Horn,  and 
took  two  months'  pay  for  it!  And  the  days 
we  used  to  sit  on  the  park  benches  along  the 
Paseo  Colon  with  the  vigilantes  lookin'  hard  at 
us !  And  the  songs  at  the  Sailor's  Opera,  where 
the  guy  played  ragtime — d'yuh  remember  them? 

DRISCOLL 

I  do,  surely. 

YANK 

And  La  Plata — phew,  the  stink  of  the  hides! 
I  always  liked  Argentine — all  except  that  booze, 
cana.     How  drunk  we  used  to  git  on  that,  re 
member? 
DRISCOLL 

Cud  I  forget  ut?  My  head  pains  me  at  the 
menshun  av  that  divil's  brew. 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 


YANK 

Remember  the  night  I  went  crazy  with  the  heat 
in  Singapore?    And  the  time  you  was  pinched 
by  the  cops  in  Port  Said?     And  the  time  we 
was  both  locked  up  in  Sydney  for  fightin'  ? 
DRISCOLL 
I  do  so. 

YANK 

And  that  fight  on  the  dock  at  Cape  Town.  (His 
voice  betrays  great  inward  perturbation.) 
DRISCOLL  (hastily) 

Don't  be  thinkin'  av  that  now.  'Tis  past  and 
gone. 

YANK 

D'yuh  think  He'll  hold  it  up  against  me? 
DRISCOLL  (mystified) 
Who's  that? 

YANK 

God.    They  say  He  sees  everything.    He  must 
know  it  was  done  in  fair  fight  —  in  self-defense 
—  don't  yuh  think? 
DRISCOLL 

Av  course.  Ye  stabbed  him,  and  be  damned 
to  him,  for  the  skulkin'  swine  he  was,  afther  him 
tryin'  to  stick  you  in  the  back,  and  you  not  sus- 
pectin'.  Let  your  conscience  be  aisy.  I  wisht 
I  had  nothin'  blacker  than  that  on  my 
sowl.  I'd  not  be  afraid  av  the  angel  Gabriel 
himself. 

YANK 

(with   a  shudder)      I   c'd   see   him   a   minute 
,  ago  with  the  blood  spurtin'  out  of  his  neck. 
Ugh! 

177 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


DRISCOLL 

The  fever,  ut  is,  that  makes  you  see  such  things. 

Give  no  heed  to  ut. 
YANK  (uncertainly) 

You  dont  think'  He'll  hold  it  up  agin  me — God, 

I  mean? 
DRISCOLL 

If  there's  justice  in  hiven,  no!   ,(Yank  seems 

comforted  by  this  assurance.) 
YANK 

(after  a  pause)  We  won't  reach  Cardiff  for 
a  week  at  least.  I'll  be  buried  at  sea. 

DRISCOLL 

(putting  his  hands  over  his  ears)  Ssshh!  I 
won't  listen  to  you. 

YANK 

(as  if  he  had  not  heard  him)  It's  as  good  a 
place  as  any  other,  I  s'pose — only  I  always 
wanted  to  be  buried  on  dry  land.  But  what  the 
hell'll  I  care— then  ?  (Fretfully)  Why  should 
it  be  a  rotten  night  like  this,  with  that  damned 
whistle  blowin'  and  people  snorin'  all  around? 
I  wish  the  stars  was  out,  and  the  moon,  too;  I 
c'd  lie  out  on  deck  and  look  at  them,  and  it'd 
make  it  easier  to  go — somehow. 

DRISCOLL 

For  the  love  av  God,  don't  be  talkin'  loike  that! 

YANK 

Whatever  pay's  comin'  to  me  yuh  can  divvy  up 
with  the  rest  of  the  boys;  and  you  take  my 
watch.    It  aio't  worth  much,  but  it's  all  I've  got. 
DRISCOLL 

But  have  ye  no  relations  at  all  to  call  your  own? 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

YANK 

No,  not  as  I  know  of.  One  thing  I  forgot: 
You  know  Fanny,  the  barmaid,  at  the  Red 
Stork  in  Cardiff? 

DRISCOLL 

Sure  and  who  doesn't? 

YANK 

She's  been  good  to  me.  She  tried  to  lend  me 
half  a  crown  when  I  was  broke  there  last  trip. 
Buy  her  the  biggest  box  of  candy  yuh  c'n  find 
in  Cardiff.  (Breaking  down — in  a  choking 
voice)  It's  hard  to  ship  on  this  voyage  I'm 
goin'  on — alone !  (Driscoll  reaches  out  and 
grasps  his  hand.  There  is  a  pause,  during  which 
both  fight  to  control  themselves)  My  throat's 
like  a  furnace.  (He  gasps  for  air)  Gimme  a 
drink  of  water,  will  yuh,  Drisc?  (Driscoll  gets 
him  a  dipper  of  water)  I  wish  this  was  a  pint 
of  beer.  Oooohh !  (He  chokes,  his  face  con 
vulsed  with  agony,  his  hands  tearing  at  his 
shirt  front.  The  dipper  falls  from  his  nerve 
less  fingers.) 

DRISCOLL 

For  the  love  av  God,  what  is  ut,  Yank? 

YANK 

(speaking  with  tremendous  difficulty)  S'long, 
Drisc!  (He  stares  straight  in  front  of  him 
with  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets)  Who's 
that? 

DRISCOLL 

Who?   What? 
¥ANK  (faintly) 

A  pretty  lady  dressed  in  black.      (His  face 
179 


THE  PRQVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

twitches  and  his  body  writhes  in  a  final  spasm, 
then  straightens  out  rigidly.) 
DRISCOLL 

(pale  with  horror)  Yank !  Yank !  Say  a  word 
to  me,  for  the  love  av  hiven !  (He  shrinks 
away  from  the  bunk,  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  Then  comes  back  and  puts  a  trembling 
hand  on  Yank's  chest  and  bends  closely  over 
the  body.) 

Cocky's  voice  (from  the  alleyway)     Oh,  Dris- 
coll !    Can  you  leave  Yank  for  arf  a  mo  and 
give  me  a  'and? 
DRISCOLL 

(with  a  great  sob)  Yank!  (He  sinks  down 
on  his  knees  beside  the  bunk,  his  head  on  his 
hands.  His  lips  move  in  some  half-remembered 
prayer.) 

COCKY 

(Enters,  his  oilskins  and  sou'wester  glistening 
with  drops  of  water)  The  fog's  lifted.  (Cocky 
sees  Driscoll  and  stands  staring  at  him  with 
open  mouth.  Driscoll  makes  the  sign  of  the 
cross  again.) 

COCKY  (mockingly) 

Sayin'  'is  prayers !  (He  catches  sight  of  the 
still  figure  in  the  bunk  and  an  expression  of 
awed  understanding  comes  over  his  face.  He 
takes  of  his  dripping  sou'wester  and  stands 
scratching  his  head.) 

COCKY 

(in  a  hushed  whisper)     Gawd  blimey. 

[CURTAIN] 
180 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 

A  COMEDY 

BY  ALICE  ROSTETTER 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  EGMONT  ARENS 

All  Rights  Reserved 


The  professional  and  amateur  stage  rights  on  this  play  are 
strictly  reserved  by  the  author.  Application  for  permission  to 
produce  the  play  should  be  made  to  Egmont  Arens,  17  West 
Eighth  St.,  New  York  City. 

Reprinted  from  No.  9  of  "The  Flying  Stag  Plays,"  published 
by  Egmont  Arens,  27  West  Eighth  St.,  New  York,  from  whom  the 
acting  edition  may  be  obtained. 


CHARACTERS 

KATY  MACMANUS  (she's  young  and  married), 
MRS.  PHELAN,  her  neighbor,  to  your  left. 
VOICES  AND  OTHER  SOUNDS, 
TIME — Twenty-four  hours  and  not  so  long  ago. 
PLACE — The    meeting    place    of   tender-hearted 
women.    The  floor's  the  fifth. 

THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL  was  first  produced  by  the 
Provincetown  Players  at  the  Playwrights'  Thea 
ter,  New  York,  on  January  17,  1919,  with  the 
following  cast : 

KATY  MACMANUS  (she's  young  and  married), 

Mary  Payne 
Her  Neighbor,  MRS.  PHELAN,  to  your  left, 

Alice  Rostetter 
VOICES  AND  OTHER  SOUNDS, 

Lewis  B.  Ell  and  Others 

Directed  by  George  Cram  Cook 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  dumb-waiter  shaft.  Rear, 
stands  the  opposite  wall,  the  bricks  worn  a  gray 
drab  in  the  cracks.  There's  the  rope  in  the  cen 
ter  and  the  side  ropes  are  vibrating  still.  The 
closed  doors  into  the  kitchens,  right  and  left, 
are  seen  and  there's  silence  on  the  two  sides. 
The  doors  into  the  kitchens  on  the  floors  above 
and  below  cannot  be  seen,  but  the  sounds  ema 
nating  from  them  are  distinguishable.  From 
the  floor  above,  the  sixth  floor  left,  comes  muf 
fled  the  crying  of  an  irritable  baby,  and  from 
the  cellar  comes  a  voice,  bad-tempered  and  with 
an  edge  on  it.  'Tis  the  voice — the  official  voice 
)f  the  Janitor. 


VOICE  OF  JANITOR 

Garbage!  (The  two  kitchen  doors  on  the  floor 
below,  the  fourth  floor,  promptly  open  with  two 
clicks,  the  two  pails  are  slammed  on  and  the 
two  doors  shut.  The  Janitor  is  heard  whipping 
down  the  dumb-waiter,  dumping  the  two  cans 
empty,  replacing  them,  giving  two  of  the  short 
est  whistles.  Then  the  dumb-waiter  is  whipped 
up;  the  two  doors  opened,  the  two  pails  taken 
of.  The  dumb-waiter  appears  at  stage  level, 
the  fifth  floor,  and  the  two  whistles  shrill  right 
and  left.  A  careful  step  is  heard  and  Mrs. 
Phelan  opens  the  door.) 

183 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


MRS.    PHELAN 

Good-mornin',  Mr.  Kelly. 

VOICE  OF  JANITOR 

Garbage !  (He  blows,  sharper  than  ever,  the 
whistle  of  the  kitchen,  right.  Mrs.  Phelan  is 
heard  putting  on  her  light  pail.  The  dumb 
waiter  is  whipped  out  of  sight.  Mrs.  Phelan 
is  revealed  from  the  waist  up;  the  merest 
glimpse  of  a  kitchen  wall  and  corner  of  a  nearby 
table  can  be  seen.  Mrs.  Phelan  is  very  neat 
and  in  dull-colored  clothes.  The  hope-of-better- 
things -turning -up  never  smiled  from  her  face. 
Her  hair  is  graying  and  drab-colored.  She 
leans  out  and  talks  down.) 
MRS.  PHELAN 

I'll  be  takin'  her  milk  off,  Mr.  Kelly.  She's 
maybe  sleepin' — or  readin' — or —  (She  leans 
across  and  knocks  on  the  door;  no  one  comes. 
The  whistle,  left,  blows;  the  waiter  shoots  up. 
Mrs.  Phelan  takes  of  her  pail  and  her  neigh 
bor's  milk  and  bread.  As  the  waiter  shoots  up 
to  the  floor  above  she  is  seen  disappearing  and 
her  door  slipping  shut.  On  the  sixth  floor  the 
two  whistles  blow  and  the  two  doors  are  opened 
and  the  crying  of  the  baby  comes  down  from 
the  edge  of  the  kitchen  door,  left.) 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH   FLOOR  RIGHT 

(an  easy,  young  voice  and  cheerful)  Good- 
mornin',  Mrs.  Tynan,  and  how's  the  little  one 
to-day? 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(a  sarcastic  voice  made  bitter  by  lack  of  sleep) 
Ye  can  hear  how,  can't  ye?     Not  a  thing  the 
184 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


matter  with  him  save  his  father's  bad  temper. 
(She  slams  on  her  pail,  punctuating  her  belief) 
And  I'll  get  that  out  of  him,  if  I  haf  to —    (The 
door  left  slams  shut.) 
VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH   FLOOR  RIGHT 

(talking  back  into  the  room)  And  did  you  hear 
that,  Maggie !  (She  puts  on  her  pail;  then,  as 
the  vibrating  ropes  jerk  tight,  comes  a  sharp 
but  polite)  Can't  you  wait,  Mr.  Kelly?  I've 
more  for  you.  (Slightly  fainter,  but  distinct, 
as  she  bends  to  lift  her  package)  And,  Mag 
gie,  that's  married  bliss  for  you.  It's  us  old 
maids  (strong,  as  she  puts  on  the  package)  is 
the  lucky  ones  (the  dumb-waiter  flies  down) 
believe  me!  (Her  door  shuts.  The  pails  are 
slammed  back,  the  waiter  flies  past  and  up,  the 
two  whistles  shrill  and  the  cellar  door  bangs 
shut.  The  door,  sixth  floor  left,  opens,  the 
baby  squalling  clear  again;  the  pail  snatched 
of  and  the  door  shut.  The  door,  sixth  floor 
right,  opens.) 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH   FLOOR  RIGHT 

(as  she  removes  pail  and  with  politic  smooth 
ness,  calling  down)  Mr.  Kelly,  will  you  be 
doin'  me  a  small  favor?  (Silence)  Mr.  Kelly! 
(with  sincerity)  The  old  crank!  (The  door 
is  slammed  shut.  Silence.  The  wind  makes  a 
faint,  mournful  sound  up  the  shaft.  A  voice 
from  the  floor  below  is  heard  humming  a  bit  of 
happy  song.  The  wind  again  keens  faint.  Mrs. 
Phelan  opens  her  door,  left,  leans  across  and 
listens.  There's  no  sound.  She  leans  further 
out.  After  a  second  more  she  knocks,  clear  and 

185 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

'determined.     A  step   is   heard.     She   knocks 
again.     The  door,  right,  opens  slow.) 
MRS.    PHELAN 

Good-mornin',  Mrs.  MacManus !  (Mrs.  Mac- 
Manus  looks  out.  Ah,  but  she's  young  and 
pretty!  The  red  hair  on  her  is  bright  and  warm 
as  a  flame;  the  white  skin  on  her,  soft.  But 
she's  pale  and  tired  now  and  her  two  eyes  have 
been  weeping.  She's  on  a  blue  kimono  of  the 
shade  of  her  eyes  when  they're  glad.  Her  de 
pressed  manner  warms  up  with  a  flick  of  im 
patience  as  she  answers.) 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

Ah,  it's  you  that  can  say  good-mornin',  Mrs. 
Phelan,  and  no  troubles  at  all. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(with  pleasurable,  but  restrained,  anticipation) 
And  is  it  trouble  ye  have? 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(the  gulp  in  her  'voice  now)     Me  man's  wurse ! 
MRS.    PHELAN 

Wurse?  And  me  not  knowin'  he  was  sick! 
(Mrs.  MacManus  nods,  biting  her  red  lips  to 
keep  the  weeping  back)  Poor  soul  1  poor  soul ! 
But  the  good  Lord  will  be  helpin'  ye,  Mrs.  Mac 
Manus.  He — 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(sharp  again)  I'm  not  doubrin'  that,  Mrs. 
Phelan,  and  me  as  good  a  Catholic  as  y'rself. 
(Her  lips  are  at  it  again)  But —  Oh — oh — 
Mrs.  Phelan,  he's  goin'  on  me ! 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Goin'?     Houly  Mary,   is  it  dyin'  ye   mean? 
186 


THE  WIDOWS-VEIL 


(Mrs.  MacManus,  with  a  nod  and  a  loud  ketch 
in  her  voice,  begins  to  sob)  There,  there,  now  1 
Ye  poor  young  thing  I  And  me  seein'  him  only 
yisterday  buyin'  the  mornin'  eggs  for  ye.  Ttt- 
ttt!  And  him  so  hale  and  hearty — seemin'. 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

'Twas  near  night  he  was  taken.  Ah —  (In  a 
burst  of  nervous,  strained  energy)  Mrs.  Phe- 
lan,  the  horror  is  on  me  still,  and  me  sittin'  quiet 
and  lone  the  night  through  I 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(visibly  cheering)  Ah,  be  tellin'  me  all,  Mrs. 
MacManus.  'Twill  ease  the  heart  of  ye. 
(Briskly,  working  in  her  metier,  gossip)  Let 
you  bring  up  a  chair  and  be  kneelin'  comfort 
able.  (Mrs.  MacManus  nods.  They  disap 
pear,  Mrs.  Phelan  reappearing  first  and  fixing 
herself  for  a  long  talk.  She  shakes  her  head 
with  the  long  sorrow,  like  a  healthy  person  at 
a  wake.  She  raises  her  hands  in  rich  despair. 
Mrs.  MacManus  reappears,  arranging  a  bright 
shawl  carefully  over  her  shoulders;  she  drapes 
it  over  her  shoulders,  her  features  both  woe 
begone  and  interested  in  the  hanging  of  the 
goods.) 
MRS.  PHELAN 

(a  little  impatient)  It  hangs  fine,  Mrs.  Mac 
Manus.  Be  tellin'  me  all!  'Twill  ease  y'r 
heart.  (Mrs.  MacManus  leans,  graceful  and 
tired)  Begin  at  the  beginnin'. 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(the  heartache  in  her  voice)  Himself  came 
home  yester  e'en  and  the  clock  at  four. 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MRS.    PHELAN 

At  four!    Was  he  red? 
MRS.  MACMANUS  (careful) 

Not  at  four.     He  was  white  like — like — 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(nodding,  understanding)  The  bit  stone  at  the 
head  of  a  gra — 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

And  the  blood  all  gone  from  his  face,  Mrs. 
Phelan. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(nodding,  fatal)     'Twas  them  chills. 
MRS.    MACMANUS 

And  his  hand  cold— cold  as  the  hand  of  a  mar 
ble  saint. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Ye  don't  say  that ! 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

And  he'd  the  pain  in  h_is  head  and  the  throat  of 
him  burnin'  like  hot  peat. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Ah,  now,  now !    Ah,  'tis  true,  Mrs.  MacManus, 
in  the  midst  of  life  we're  in  death.    And  what's 
the  doctor  namin'  it? 
MRS.    MACMANUS 

And  would  he  let  a  doctor  in  the  house,  and 
me  beggin'  him  one  hour  by  the  clock  and  the 
tears  in  me  eyes! 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Ah,  ye  should  not  be  askin'  him,  ye  poor  young 
bride.  Just  have  the  man  in.  I'll  step  around 
meself  and  be  askin'  the  doctor  to  have  a  look 
in. 

188 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


MRS.    MACMANUS 

Ye're  kind,  Mrs.  Phelan. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Not  at  all.  But  I'm  feerin'  it's  too  late.  Them 
chills  is- —  (Mrs.  MacManus  breaks  down  and 
sobs)  There,  there,  now,  dearie —  (She  pats 
her  across  the  shaft,  forcing  hope,  to  be  kind) 
It — maybe  it's  only  a  germ  it  is,  and  them  that 
thick  in  the  street.  (Mrs.  MacManus  sobs  the 
harder)  Now,  now,  ye'll  blubber  all  the  pretty 
out  of  y'r  face.  (Mrs.  MacManus  fumbles 
about  for  a  handkerchief)  Is  it  a  hangkercheef 
ye  want?  (She  extracts  one  from  her  apron 
belt)  Me  cousin's  after  leavin'  it  here  (she 
examines  the  border)  on  the  way  home  from 
Mr.  Reilly's  wake.  (She  passes  it  across)  Ye'll 
not  mind  the  black  border,  I  hope?  (Mrs. 
MacManus,  grasping  it,  sobs  violently,  like  a 
child)  Ah,  now,  don't  take  on.  It's  not 
stretched  out  he  is  yet.  Not  yet,  dearie.  Not 
yet.  Be  tellin'  me  more  and  ease  y'r  heart. 
(She  sums  up  brightly)  He  came  home  at  four 
and  the  hand  of  him  all  like  the  hand  of  a  corpse. 
Ttt,  ttt !  And  straight  he  wint  for  the  bed.  And 
then? 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(sobbing  more  quietly)  He  wouldn't  eat  the 
meat  I  was  fixin',  the  way  he  likes,  with  me  own 
two  hands.  And  at  nine  by  the  clock  he  starts 
mutterin'  and  tossin'  and  twistin'  like  a  soul  in 
the  black  depths  of  hell.  And —  (She  looks 
up)  I  takes  a  chair  and  I  sits  beside  him  and 
I  tries  catchin'  hold  of  his  hand  and  kissin'  it, 
189 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

the  way  he'll  be  always  doin'  and  him  in  his 
health.  And —  (A  bright  spark  of  anger  lights 
up  her  eye)  Ye'll  not  believe  what  I'm  tellin' 
ye,  Mrs.  Phelan! 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(nodding  affirmation)  Go  on,  Mrs.  Mac- 
Manus. 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

What  does  he  do  but  snatch  back  his  hand  and 
curses  like  the  mad  king  of  Kildare.     And  me 
— and  me —    (She  resumes  a  gentle  weeping.) 
MRS.  PHELAN  (solemnly)  -. 

A  ten-day  bride!     Go  on,  Mrs.   MacManus. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(a  little  indistinctly)  And,  says  he,  shoutin' : 
"Can't  ye  be  leavin'  me  to  die  in  peace — for  one 
moment!"  Oh,  Mrs.  Phelan,  the  red  face  of 
him,  and  his  eyes  closed  in  it. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(recording  the  change)  'Twas  red  by  that — 
in  spots? 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

No,  just  plain.  And  me  watchin'  it  the  clock 
'round. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(again  summing  up)  Red — and  hot — and  his 
mind  bad.  Poor  young  thing!  Poor  young 
thing !  But  go  on,  while  ye  can. 

MRS.  MACMANUS    - 

And  when  the  cold  mornin'  light  comes  stralin' 
in,  and  the  clock  at  four,  he  stops  mutterin'  and 
tossin',  and  lies  still,  except  for  the  sound  in 
his  throat. 

190 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


MRS.    PHELAN 

Glory  be  to  God,  Mrs.  MacManus,  it's  the  end! 
It's  the  rattl — 
MRS.  MACMANUS  (alarmed) 

What  d'ye  mean,  Mrs.  Phelan? 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(rapidly  easing  her  own  heart  and  keeping  the 
raw  truth,  as  she  sees  it,  from  Mrs.  MacManus) 
Ye'll  be  knowin'  soon  enough.  Arra,  arra,  it's 
the  like  of  that  hangkercheef  ye'll  be  usin'  soon. 
But  go  on,  Mrs.  MacManus,  go  on.  Ah,  it's 
the  night  ye  had! 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(looking  at  her  for  further  comfort)  And  sit- 
tin'  on  me  chair,  thinkin',  it  comes  to  me  sudden 
and  quick  'twas  warnin'  me  Pat  was,  Sunday 
night  last. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Warnin'  ye? 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

I'm  knowin'  now  he  had  a  presintement  of  what 
was  to  come.  Says  he — the  night  of  Sunday — 
ye  know  his  bright^way — says  he:  "Katy,  if  I 
go  to  join  the  angels  afore  you  do — " 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Sakes ! 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

" — ye  must  be  marryin'  again.  Ye're  too  pretty 
to  be  livin'  alone,  though,"  says  he,  smilin', 
"the  widow's  veil  will  become  ye  fine,  and  that 
hair  warmin'  the  heart  of  a  man.  It'll  set  ye 
fine,  Katy." 

191 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MRS.    PHELAN 

It  will.  YeVe  a  black  skirt?  (Mrs.  Mac- 
Manus  gives  a  cry,  all  tears  and  despair,  and  a 
bit  of  protest.  Mrs.  Phelan  speaks  sternly) 
Ye  must  be  ready,  out  of  respect  for  the  good 
man.  Have  ye  a  waist  will  do? 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(muffled,  patient,  despairing)  Me  new  one 
with  the  gold  lace  and — 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(nodding,  business-like)  The  little  vest !  'Twill 
do  fine  and  easy  fixed.  Have  ye  a  bit  of  bonnet? 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

The  black  one  with  the  blue  wing  lyin'  down  at 
the  side. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Fine!  Yes,  ye've  the  color  for  the  veil.  And 
ye'll  not  be  buyin'  it,  Mrs.  MacManus,  for  me 
cousin'll  lend  it  to  ye —  (A  gesture  of  protest 
from  Mrs.  MacManus.  Reassuring  her)  And 
glad  of  the  chance,  Mrs.  MacManus.  (Mrs. 
MacManus  is  sobbing  regularly  and  with  less 
control  each  sob)  She's  after  showin'  it  to  me. 
It's  that  fine  'twould  do  y'r  heart  good.  There, 
now !  And  the  hem,  Mrs.  MacManus,  the  hem ! 
(Mrs.  MacManus  gives  a  rending  sob,  flings 
up  her  two  hands  in  agony  nnd  disappears. 
The  door  shuts  behind  her.  Mrs.  Phelan  shakes 
her  head  after  her  in  real  sympathy)  The  poor 
young  thing!  (Then  she  straightens  up,  taking 
of  her  apron.  Briskly)  I'll  be  steppin'  out 
now  for  the  doctor.  (The  smile  leaves  her  face 
and  she  nods  her  head  reverently,  talking  as  if 
192 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


in  the  presence  of  the  corpse)  And  him  that 
was  always  so  hearty.  Poor  young  thing !  Poor 
young  thing!  (She  slips  out,  closing  her  door 
quietly.  All  is  still  for  a  moment,  then  the  faint 
wind  is  again  beginning  to  be  heard.  The  door, 
sixth  floor  left,  opens  and  the  crying  of  the 
baby,  distant  from  an  inner  room,  comes  down. 
The  Woman  Sixth  Floor  Left  rattles  the  dumb 
waiter  rope  and  waits.  There's  a  careful,  faint 
sound  from  the  cellar,  as  the  cellar  door  is 
opened  on  a  crack.) 
VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

Mr.  Kelly,  there's  no  stame  at  all.  (Silence) 
There's  not  one  drop  of  heat  in  the  pipes  and 
the  children  comin'  home  from  school.  (Silence, 
with  the  breath  of  two  people  present  in  it) 
Y're  there,  Mr.  Kelly,  that  I  know.  And  I'll 
have  the  landlord  on  ye,  for  y'r  insubordina — 
(Door  of  fourth  floor  left  opens.  Joyous  noise 
of  hungry  children.) 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  FOURTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(a  gentle,  motherly  voice)  And  here's  the 
children,  Mr.  Kelly,  and  the  pipes — 

VOICE  OF  LITTLE  GIRL  FOURTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

Here's  Johnny  Phelan  come  for  lunch,  mither. 

VOICE  OF  JOHNNY  PHELAN 

Me  mudder's  out. 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  FOURTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(speaking  into  the  room)     Sit  ye  down  there. 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(loud)  This  is  me  last  wurd,  Mr.  Kelly.  The 
breath  is  leavin'  me  body  in  the  form  of  ice ! 

193 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

(There's  a  faint  noise  in  the  cellar  of  a  door 
cautiously  closed.) 
VOICE  OF  WOMAN  FOURTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(bright  and  ready  for  a  talk)  Ye're  right,  Mrs. 
Tynan.  He  was  there.  ( The  door  above  slams 
shut.  Speaking  back  into  the  room)  Be  givin' 
Johnny  Phelan  some  of  your  tea.  (The  door 
closes.  Again  the  sound  of  a  faint  wind.  The 
whistle,  sixth  floor  left,  blows,  with  flowery  in 
direction;  the  cellar  door  opens  and  a  man 
whistles  the  first  half  of  a  phrase  from  Santa 
Lucia.  The  door  of  the  sixth  floor  left  opens.) 

PLEASANT  ITALIAN  VOICE 

Ice-a  man,  lady?  (A  wail  from  the  baby  es 
capes.) 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(baited,  angry)  No!  (The  Italian  completes 
with  the  phrase,  closing  the  cellar  door.  Silence. 
A  moment  of  wind.  The  whistle,  sixth  floor 
right,  blows  with  irritable  precision.  The  cel 
lar  door  opens.  Pause.  Whistle:  irritable 
crescendo.  Pause.  Whistle.  Pause.) 

VOICE  OF  GROCER 

(Teutonic  and  disagreeable)  De  grozzer!  Gott 
in  Himmel,  dieses —  (Door  closes  with  re 
strained  fury.  Silence.  Sounds,  left,  from  Mrs. 
Phelan' s  kitchen.  She  is  moving  about.  A  siz 
zling  and  pleasant  smell  escapes,  as  her  door 
opens.  She  still  has  her  hat  on;  her  face  is  busy 
and  cheerful.  She  disappears  a  moment  and 
then  reappears  with  part  of  bottle  of  milk  and 
part  of  a  loaf  of  bread.  She  knocks  quietly  but 
distinctly.  She  knocks  a  second  time.  The  door 
194 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


right  opens.  Mrs.  MacManus  stands,  weak  and 
pale  and  patient.) 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(handing  the  milk  and  bread  across)  Here's 
the  mornin's  milk,  and  y'r  bread.  (Mrs.  Mac- 
Manns  takes  them,  putting  them  down  right) 
And  here's —  (Mrs.  Phelan  turns  back  and 
brings  up  from  the  nearby  table  a  tray  with 
luncheon)  a  bit  of  lunch  I'm  after  fixin'  for  you. 
(She  hands  it  across)  Better  late  than  never. 
Ye  must  eat,  Mrs.  MacManus,  even  with  the 
black  sorrow  in  the  house. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(in  a  weak  voice)  It's  only  a  sup  of  tea  I've 
had  and  the  day  near  its  end.  The  lump  in  me 
throat — but  I'll  try,  Mrs.  Phelan. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Be  puttin'  it  on  the  table  there/ so's  we  can 
talk.  (Mrs.  McManus  does)  And  himself — 
is  he — 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(looking  up,  ready  to  take  heart  if  she  only 
may)  He's  a  bit  conscious  now —  (Mrs.  Phe- 
lan's  face  drops)  but  I'm  not  darin'  to  hope. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Y're  right,  Mrs.  MacManus.  They're  always 
better  before  they're  worse.  I  left  word  with 
the  doctor.  (Taking  of  her  hat)  He  was  out 
deliverin'  a  woman.  Awh,  it's  wonderful,  Mrs. 
MacManus,  the  way  a  new  soul  comin'  in 
brushes  past  the  old  one —  (pointing  into  Mrs. 
MacManus'  room)  goin'  out!  (Mrs.  Mac 
Manus  chokes  a  bit  on  her  toast.  Cheering  her) 

195 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

And  now  hear  the  good  news.     Me  cousin's 
after  lendin'  ye  the  veil. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(putting  down  her  tea)  Ah,  the  sharp  sorrow's 
on  me  again  at  the  word ! 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(mechanically  undoing  the  package)  Wisha, 
darlin',  ye  may  never  need  it.  And  I  have  it 
right  here.  (Mrs.  MacManus  pushes  the  tray 
aside.  Ingratiating)  Will  ye  be  seein' it?  How 
soft  it  hangs !  (She  is  now  holding  the  'veil  in 
-the  shaft)  And  the  hem — it's  two  inches,  it 
is.  Will  ye  be  weighin'  it,  in  y'r  hand — it's 
that  light. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(weighing  it)    'Tis  light. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Where's  the  bit  hat  ye  was  tellin'  me  of? 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

It's  under  the  bed.    Himself  maybe  will  be  see- 
in'  me. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

And  what  if  he  does,  darlin'  ?  and  the  blue  wing 
yet  on  it.  (Mrs.  MacManus,  passes  back  the 
veil  and  disappears.  Mrs.  Phelan  holds  it  up, 
half  draping  it.  Mrs.  MacManus  hands  over 
the  hat.) 
MRS.  MACMANUS 

(a  tremor  in  her  voice)    I've  the  scissors  here. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Thanks.     Be  drinkin'  y'r  tea,  that's  the  gurl. 
Easy  on,  (She  snips  of  the  wing)  easy  off.   Let 
me  see  what  way  it  looks  on  ye. 
196 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


MRS.  MACMANUS 

(putting  it  on  deftly,  giving  a  touch  to  her  hair) 
It  would  be  different  with  the  wing  off? 
(There's  a.  little  worry  in  her  voice.) 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Ye  should  see  the  way  it  looks !    And  now  be 
tryin'  the  veil.     I've  the  pins  with  me.     (She 
passes  one  over.) 
MRS.  MACMANUS 

Ye're  good  to  me,  Mrs.  Phelan,  takin'  all  this 
pains. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Oh,  I'm  enjoyin'  it  fine,  Mrs.  MacManus! 
Now  take  the  short  end — that's  it — and  put  it 
—  See  if  I  can  be  reachin'  you.  Now  pin  that 
back — there.  Ah,  now,  will  ye  look !  Ye  were 
born  for  the  style  I  Ye  should  never  wear  any 
thing  else. 
MRS.  MACMANUS  (pleased) 

Ye  like  it  fine  ?  I'll  have  another  pin  if  ye  have 
it. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

The  white  neck  of  ye. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

It  would  look  well? 

MRS.    PHELAN 

And  the  hair  of  ye,  lickin'  out  like  a  little  flame 
— and  dancin'  on  y'r  ear. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(with  desire)  I  wonder  could  I  be  seein'  me- 
self? 

MRS.    PHELAN 

And  what's  to  prevent? 
197 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MRS.  MACMANUS  (smiling) 

Nothin'  that  I  know.  (She  turns  toward  the 
room)  I'll  be  gettin'  the  glass. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(in  horror)  Glory  be  to  God,  Mrs.  MacManus, 
stop! 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(turning  a  face  of  pure  disappointment)  I 
could  be  goin'  in  on  me  toes.  He's  sleepin'  fine. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Would  ye  kill  the  man,  and  this  his  last  mo 
ment!  Whst,  wait.  I'll  be  bringin'  me  own 
glass.  (She  disappears.  Mrs.  MacManus 
fixes  the  folds,  seeing  them  with  her  fingers. 
She  hums  a  bit  as  she  tries  to  see  the  effect  of 
the  long  ripple  of  goods  down  her  back.  Mrs. 
Phelan  reappears,  holding  out  the  glass)  Here, 
darlin'.  Take  the  side  look  first.  Ain't  that 
pretty?  And  the  white  neck  of  ye  gleamin' 
against  the  dark. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(surveying  it  with  pleasure)  In  his  health  he 
will  be  always  kissin'  it,  will  Pat. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

And  why  not?  and  you  lookin'  like  the  queen 
of  all  Ireland — and  the  king  dead.  (The  door 
bell  in  the  kitchen  rings  sharp.  Mrs.  Mac 
Manus,  with  a  start,  clutches  her  bosom.) 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

Mary,  save  me!  What's  that?  (They  wait, 
listening.) 

MRS.  PHELAN  (slowly) 

It's  maybe  the  doctor.   (Mrs.  MacManus  turns 
198 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


abruptly,  about  to  go  in.  Mrs.  Phelan  speaks 
in  sharp  alarm)  Hould,  woman!  And  you 
meetin'  the  doctor  like  that,  he'll  be  havin'  you 
up  for  murder. 

MRS.  MACMANUS 

(going  to  pieces,  in  wild  excitement  and  tearing 
the  thing  of  her  head)  Ye'll  all  have  the  heart 
torn  out  of  me,  pullin'  me  this  way -and  that. 
(She  thrusts  over  the  hat  and  veil.  The  door 
bell  rings  a  second  time.  She  disappears  and 
the  dumb-waiter  door  shuts.) 
MRS.  PHELAN 

(the  hat  on  her  hand  and  straightening  out  the 
folds)  The  Houly  Mother  protect  them  both ; 
him  dyin'  and  her  breakin'  her  heart  for  the 
loss  of  him.  (Giving  a  last  look  at  the  hat  and 
veil,  exhibited  on  her  hand)  The  poor,  pretty 
young  thing!  (She  closes  the  door,  disappear 
ing.  The  shaft  grows  dark  and  the  wind  keens 
a  bit  stronger.  Door  fourth  floor  left  opens.) 

VOICE  OF  MAN  FOURTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

Well?  No,  Biddie,  there's  no  one  at  the  whis 
tle.  And  I  says  to  the  boss —  (Door  closes. 
Silence.  Mrs.  Phelan  opens  her  door  slowly, 
cautiously.  She  listens.  Quiet.  She  gives  a  long, 
mournful  sigh  and  closes  the  door.  The  baby 
on  sixth  floor  left  starts  crying.) 
VOICE  OF  MAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(near  door)  What  the  divil's  the  matter  with 
him  now? 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

Nothin's    the    matter,    save    his    father's   bad 
temp —   (Quiet.    Mrs.  Phelan  opens  her  door, 
199 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

listens,  shakes  her  head  with  sorrowful  satis 
faction.) 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Rest  his  soul.  Whsst,  Johnny!  (Johnny 
galumps  near)  Shh,  a  man's  dyin'  within.  Be 
goin'  down  to  the  door  and  see  if  the  black 
crepe's  up.  (Mrs.  Phelan  takes  out  a  handker 
chief  and  still  listening  keenly,  begins  to  weep 
and  sniff.) 
VOICE  OF  JOHNNY 

(in  a  penetrating  whisper)     Not  yet,  mither! 
I  looked  before. 
MRS.    PHELAN 

(disappointed,  but  feelingly)     It's  a  long  pass- 
in'.     (She  closes  door.    Silence.) 

VOICE  OF  LITTLE  GIRL 

(fourth  floor  left)     It's  me  prayers  I'm  doin', 
mither.     (Pause.) 

VOICE  OF  MAN  FOURTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

Good-night,  sweet  Biddie  Murphy.  (Silence. 
The  wind  keens  a  bit.  Sleepy  fretting  of  a 
child.  Slippered  feet  on  oil-cloth,  left.  Mrs. 
Phelan,  her  hair  done  smooth  in  a  tight  pig 
tail  and  in  her  night-gown,  opens  door.  Listens. 
Muffled  comes  the  sound  of  a  dog  howling.) 
MRS.  PHELAN 

(Crossing  herself;  on  a  voice  that  keens)   God 
rest  his  soul  I 

[THE  CURTAIN  DROPS  AND  IMMEDIATELY  RISES, 
TO  INDICATE  MORNING] 

Baby  sixth  floor  left  wails  and  the  father  is  heard 
walking  up  and  down  and  crooning  to  it.     It 
200 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


quiets.  It  is  still.  Silence.  A  dog  gives  two 
sharp  barks.  Silence.  Faint  but  persistent  comes 
the  amorous  antiphony  of  two  cats.  A  pale, 
white  light  steals  down  the  shaft.  The  steam 
is  heard  cracking  and  clanking  in  the  cold  pipes. 
The  door  sixth  floor  left  opens,  and  a  yellow 
light  streams  down.  The  man  pulls  up  the 
empty  dumb-waiter. 

VOICE  OF  MAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

Damn  that  milkman!  Why  in  hell  can't  he — 
(Door  slams  shut.  Immediately  from  the  cel 
lar  comes  a  cheery  young  whistle,  and  the  waiter 
flies  down;  four  pairs  of  milk  bottles  are  put 
on.  The  cellar  door  bangs  shut.) 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

(sleep,  sour)    It's  the  milkman  now,  Mike. 

VOICE  OF  MAN  SIXTH  FLOOR  LEFT 

I'm  not  goin'  ter  pull  up  that  damned  waiter 
again  if —  (The  door  is  shut.  The  baker's 
boy  puts  on  the  bread.  He  blows  the  eight 
whistles  with  vigor  and  delight.  The  door  sixth 
floor  right  opens.) 

VOICE  OF  WOMAN  SIXTH   FLOOR  RIGHT 

(the  easy,  cheerful,  young  voice)  It's  the  bread, 
Maggie.  I'll  be  pullin'  it  up.  (Mrs.  Phelan' s 
door  is  seen  opening  on  a  crack.  As  the  waiter 
passes  the  stage  level,  the  hands  of  Johnny 
Phelan  shoot  out  and  he  grabs  of  his  mother's 
milk  and  bread.  The  waiter  is  yanked  past  and 
up  and  the  pleasant  voice  grows  angry)  I  saw 
you,  Johnny  Phelan — you  good-for-nothin'  lazy 
lout.  (The  hand  and  arm  of  Johnny  Phelan 
project  through  the  crack  into  the  dumb-waiter 
201 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

shaft  and  the  fingers  of  the  hand  temporarily 
attached  to  a  nose  wriggle  in  disdain)  And  if 
ever  I  get  me  two  hands  into  your  hair —  (Her 
door  shuts.  Johnny  Phelan  executes,  unseen,  a 
shuffle  on  the  oilcloth.) 
MRS.  PHELAN 

(appearing  suddenly)  Ye  black-hearted  boy, 
dancin',  and  the  man  lyin'  there  in  his  coffin 
cold  dead!  (Mrs.  Phelan  leans  over  and  lis 
tens.  In  surprise)  There's  no  keenin' — not  a 
sob.  There's  somethin'  wrong!  (She  knocks, 
calling)  Mrs. — Mac — Man — us.  (The  door, 
right,  opens  suddenly  and  sharply  and  Mrs. 
MacManus  is  seen.  She  has  on  a  house  dress 
and  apron  and  her  sleeves  are  rolled  up.  Her 
eyes  are  bright,  her  cheeks  flushed;  her  manner 
brisk,  angry.)  . 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

Good-mornin',  Mrs.  Phelan — if  ye  can  call  it 
a  good  mornin'  when  y'r  asked  to  go  six 
ways  at  once  and  only  one  pair  of  feet  for  the 
goin' ! 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(with  a  fine  regret  in  her  voice)  Then  yeVe 
saved  him? 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

Saved  him !  It's  meself  that  needs  savin'  now. 
What  with — "The  newspaper,  darlin'  " — and 
— "A  drink  of  water,  me  pretty" — and — "Is 
the  coffee  ready,  mavourneen?"  —  and  —  it's 
meat  he's  yellin'  for  now ! 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Doctor  Platz  is  the  rare  wonder. 
202 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


MRS.    MACMANUS 

He's  not.  'Twas  nothin'  but  the  two  tonsils  in 
his  throat  started  all  the  roarin'  and  rampin' 
and  preparin'  us  for  his  death.  (There's  an 
empty  pause.) 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(looking  down  the  shaft;  in  a  lying  'voice)  Now 
— did  I  hear  the  ice  man,  Mrs.  MacManus? 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(looking  down  and  lying,  too)  I  think  maybe 
ye  did.  No,  'twas  something  else. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(beckoning  her  closer)  I'll  be  takin'  it  back  to 
me  cousin,  the  morn. 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(regretfully,  In  pleasant  reminiscence)     It  did 
become  me,  did  it  not,  Mrs.  Phelan? 
MRS.    PHELAN 

That  it  did,  Mrs.  MacManus. 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(hesitating)     Could  I — be  seein'  it  a  minute? 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(turning  left  and  taking  the  hat  and  'veil  from 
the  table  near)  I  have  it  ready — sewed  and  the 
iron  goin'  over  it. 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

I  wonder  if —  (She  listens  back)  He's  readin' 
the  paper. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

(handing  over  the  hat  and  veil)    I've  the  glass 
with  me.     (Mrs.  MacManus  puts  on  the  hat 
and  veil,  straightening  the  folds.) 
203 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

It  does  hang  nice  and  rich. 

MRS.    PHELAN 

Ah,  Mrs.  MacManus,  I'll  never  be  happy  till  I 
see  the  like  of  it  on  y'r  head  again ! 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(with  a  nervous  glance  over  her  shoulder)  Be 
givin'  me  the  glass !  (She  takes  it  and  smiles 
as  she  sees  the  reflection)  It  does  look  grand. 
It  sets  me  fine.  Mrs.  Phelan,  I  never  put  a 
thing  on  me  head  that  pleased  me  more. 

VOICE  OF  PAT 

(from  some  distance;  kind)    Katy,  darlin' ! 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(in  utter  terror)     It's  himself! 

VOICE  OF  PAT 

(a  little  nearer;  more  insistent)     Katy — 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

(to  him  as  she  grabs  of  the  hat  and  veil)  Stand 
where  ye  are !  —  It's  caught,  Mrs.  Phelan. 
(Loud,  back  to  Pat)  Out  of  the  draft.  (After 
a  moment  fraught  with  agony,  the  veil  is  freed. 
She  bundles  it  and  the  hat  together  and  thrusts 
them  over  to  Mrs.  Phelan)  Tell  y'r  cousin — 

VOICE  OF  PAT 

(irritable)    Kate — 

MRS.    MACMANUS 

I'm  cpmin^man! —  The  hat's  hers  and  I'm 
,thankin'  her  for  the  loan  and  sorry  I  can't  be 
usin'  it.  (Turning  towards  the  room,  with  ter 
rible  irony)  Is  it  y'r  five  pounds  of  steak,  Pat, 
y're  wantin'  now?  (The  door  shuts  behind 
her.) 

204 


THE  WIDOW'S  VEIL 


MRS.    PHELAN 

Poor  soul!  (Looking  at  the  door  angrily) 
And  him  that  hearty!  (She  gives  the  veil  a 
last  sad  look  and  fixing  it  as  it  hangs  grand  on 
her  hand)  Ah,  you  never  know  the  wurst  till 
it  comes.  (As  she  shuts  the  door  in  reproach 
and  disappointment)  The  poor,  pretty  young 
thing.  (As  the  curtain  begins  to  descend  two 
sharp  whistles  are  heard.) 

VOICE  OF  JANITOR 

Garbage ! 

[CURTAIN] 


205 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

A  PLAY 
BY  RITA  WELLMAN 


Copyright,  1917, 
BY  RITA  WELLMAN 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Applications  for  the  right  of  performing  "The  String  of  the 
Samisen"  must  be  made  to  Miss  Rita  Wellman,  142  East  Eight 
eenth  St.,  New  York. 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN  was  originally 
produced  by  The  Provincetown  Players,  New 
York,  on  January  17,  1919,  with  the  following 
cast: 

KATSU  MORI,  a  rich  merchant,  Ward  Roege 
TAMA,  his  wife,  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 
ARINORI  OKUBO,  Rollo  Peters 
SUTSUMI,  teacher  of  the  Samisen,  O.  K.  Liveright 
HATSU,  Tama's  maid,  Blanche  Hays 

Setting  by  Lloyd  Wright 
Directed  by  Michio  Itow 

CHARACTERS 

KATSU  MORI,  a  rich  merchant 

TAMA,  his  wife 

ARINORI  OKUBO;  a  young  samurai 

SUTSUMI,  teacher  of  the  samisen 

HATSU,  Tama's  maid 

Two  YOUNG  SAMURAI 

The  action  takes  place  in  Japan  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

NOTE. — Although  the  theme  of  this  play  is 
taken  from  a  Bushido  legend,  the  author  has  used 
her  material  freely  in  her  own  way,  but  begs  to 
be  pardoned  for  any  anachronisms. 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

SCENE  :  Large  room  in  the  merchant's  house. 
Three  screens  at  back  forming  the  walls.  A 
space  for  an  entrance  between  the  foremost 
screens,  the  other  placed  in  the  background  to 
form  a  passage.  These  screens  are  painted 
silver,  with  sprays  of  azaleas  in  faint  pink. 
Shoji  (paper  windows)  occupy  the  whole  of 
the  walls  right  and  left.  On  the  back  screen 
left  a  kakemono.  Beneath  it  a  tall,  white  porce 
lain  jar  with  a  single  iris  flower.  Mats  on  the 
floor  right  and  left.  A  small  lacquer  table  at 
left  forward.  It  is  afternoon.  Hatsu,  the  maid, 
wearing  a  cotton  crepe  kimono,  enters  at  back, 
and  bows  to  the  ground  before  Sutsumi,  who 
comes  in  slowly,  pointing  his  cane  before  him, 
as  he  is  blind.  He  wears  a  grey  crepe  kimono 
and  a  scarf  over  his  head;  this  he  removes.  He 
is  old  and  grey. 

SUTSUMI 

Hatsu-San,  where  is  your  mistress?     Is  she 
here? 

HATSU 

She  is  here,  Sutsumi-San.    I  will  call  her.    Your 
health  is  good,  Sutsumi? 
SUTSUMI 

If  the  blind  and  old  can  be  well.     And  you, 
Hatsu-San  ? 

209 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

HATSU 

I  am  young  and  strong  and  no  evil  spirit  touches 
me.  (Bows)  I  will  call  my  lady.  (She  bows 
again  and  goes  out  entrance  at  back.  Tama 
enters.  She  is  a  pretty,  dainty  creature,  dressed 
in  an  exquisite  embroidered  kimono  of  cherry- 
colored  silk.  Her  hair  is  arranged  elaborately.) 

SUTSUMI  (bowing) 
O-Kami-San. 

TAMA  (bowing) 

Sutsumi-San,  how  did  you  know  that  I  had  come 
in? 

SUTSUMI 

I  heard  the  rustle  of  your  silk. 

TAMA 

And  I  am  famous  for  my  quiet  walk!  Be 
seated.  (She  sits  on  the  mat  left  and  he  sits 
on  the  mat  right.) 

SUTSUMI 

My  lady  is  well? 

TAMA 

I  am  always  well,  thank  you.     And  you? 

SUTSUMI 

I  grow  well  when  I  hear  my  lady's  voice. 

TAMA 

I  am  a  very  bad  pupil.  I  have  not  practiced  at 
all.  (Claps  her  hands)  Hatsu  must  bring  me 
my  samisen.  After  all,  work  is  not  pleasant. 
The  birds  do  not  have  to  learn  to  sing.  For  my 
part,  I  would  rather  play  from  morning  until 
night.  There  are  many  pleasant  games  to  learn 
if  you  are  idle  enough. 
210 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

SUTSUMI 

My  lady  is  wise  beyond  her  years. 

HATSU 

(entering,  bowing)  Here  is  your  samisen,  my 
lady.  ( She  hands  Tama  the  samisen,  a  musical 
instrument  something  like  a  guitar,  with  three 
strings,  and  played  with  a  small  piece  of  ivory. 
Hatsu  then  goes  out.) 

TAMA 

Do  you  know  any  dances,  Sutsumi? 

SUTSUMI 

Ladies  of  high  degree  do  not  dance ! 

TAMA 

Oh,  there  you  are  wrong,  Sutsumi.  Everyone 
is  dancing  now.  There  is  Haru-San.  She 
knows  a  dance.  It  is  as  if  she  were  being  pur 
sued  by  spiders.  She  is  a  very  ugly  woman  and 
she  has  had  ten  children.  Her  husband  has 
five  concubines,  and  he  is  always  threatening 
to  divorce  her  because  she  is  a  gossip.  But  I 
think  it  is  on  account  of  her  dancing. 
SUTSUMI 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  upon  spiders. 

TAMA 

But  I  am  sure  there  must  be  more  alluring 
dances,  if  not  necessarily  designed  for  the  en 
tertainment  of  one's  august  husband. 

SUTSUMI 

All  good  things  ladies  learn  are  necessarily  de 
signed  for  the  entertainment  of  their  august 
husbands. 

211 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

TAMA 

(with  a  sigh)  I  wonder  how  that  started, 
Sutsumi  ? 

SUTSUMI 

The  law  of  human  deportment  sprang  from  the 
word  of  Buddha. 

TAMA  (thoughtfully) 

Yes,  that  is  so.  (Quickly)  Sutsumi,  I  would 
like  to  learn  a  dance  that  is  something  like  a 
song — a  song  with  a  body — a  song  that  is  the 
petal  of  a  plum  blossom  in  an  April  breeze. 

SUTSUMI 

An  imagination  is  a  dangerous  thing  in  a 
woman. 

TAMA  (coaxingly) 

Sutsumi,  please  play  me  a  song.  A  swaying, 
dancing  kind  of  song.  I  do  not  care  where  you 
learned  it — if  it  comes  from  the  secret  houses 
of  delight  where  men  forget  their  honorable 
duties  and  which  good  women  pass  with  their 
nostrils  squeezed  together — lest  they  breathe 
contamination. 

SUTSUMI 
My  lady ! 

TAMA 

Hurry !  Play  me  a  song.  You  go  every  place. 
You  learn  everything.  Your  eyes  are  blind, 
but  the  gods  gave  you  eyes  in  your  ears  and 
fingers. 

SUTSUMI 

I  would  play  you  such  a  song — but  your  lord — 

TAMA 

Oh,  you  need  not  worry  about  him.     My  lord 
212 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

is  attending  an  important  meeting  of  merchants. 
My  lord  is  never  smiling  these  days.     He  has 
traded  honestly  all  his  life,  but  he  has  somehow 
made  an  enemy. 
SUTSUMI 

I  cannot  imagine  how  anyone  should  come  to 
hate  your  lord. 

TAMA 

Nor  I.    He  is  as  harmless  as  a  woman  for  all 
his  stormy  looks.     I  do  believe  that  the  more 
gentle  he  grows  the  darker  he  makes  his  face 
purposely. 
SUTSUMI 

It  is  a  disgrace  to  be  soft  in  your  ways  when 
you  are  a  man.  But  is  there  no  one  to  hear  our 
song? 

TAMA 

Only  Hatsu.    As  you  know,  I  live  all  alone. 
SUTSUMI 

You  are  favored  of  the  gods. 

TAMA 

Yes,  I  am  a  fortunate  woman.  I  have  no 
mother-in-law  and  my  husband  has  no  concu 
bines.  My  house  is  my  own.  All  my  rich  em 
broideries — my  silk  worms — even  my  garden. 
My  garden  is  my  own,  from  the  silver  lake 
with  the  lotus  blossoms  down  to  the  smallest 
snail. 
SUTSUMI 

Your  life  is  free  of  shadows. 

TAMA 

I  could  not  have  more  even  if  I  were  unre- 
spectable.    Yet  the  life  of  an  oiran  is  an  easy 
213 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

.  one.  To  sing  and  dance  all  day  long  and  to 
wear  a  gorgeous  unabashed  obi.  To  lure  men 
from  their  honorable  boredom.  To  smilingly 
make  them  forget  their  duties.  Life  in  Japan 
is  just  duty  after  duty.  How  is  that,  Sutsumi? 

SUTSUMI 

I  am  teacher  of  the  samisen,  not  the  book  of 
Wisdom.  Play  for  me  the  song  I  gave  you  to 
learn  and  then  we  will  learn  a  dance. 

TAMA 

(starts  to  play  the  samisen)  When  I  sit  by  the 
garden  wall  and  sing,  I  can  hear  footsteps  grow 
slow  on  the  other  side.  I  should  like  to  be  a 
man  and  walk  by  a  garden  wall  and  hear  a  lady 
singing.  (She  plays  a  moment  falteringly,  then 
puts  down  the  samisen  to  talk)  Did  you  ever 
see  an  Englishman,  Sutsumi?  I  know  a  lady 
.  who  saw  an  Englishman.  His  nose  started 
from  his  eyes  like  a  demon,  and  his  eyes  were 
close  together  like  a  bird  of  prey.  He  did 
everything  the  wrong  way,  and  he  had  no  soul. 
What  can  you  expect?  In  England  the  women 
rule;  and  there  have  been  cases  where  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen  commands  the  life  of  five  or  even 
six  young  men. 

SUTSUMI 

England  is  a  land  of  Barbarians. 

TAMA 

Children  may  be  rude  to  their  parents,  and  a 
wife  may  say  no  to  her  husband.  The  gods 
must  be  very  fond  of  the  English.  (Sings) 


214 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

Adana  e-  gao  -ni 

Mayowanu  mono  wa 

Ki-Butsu-  Kana-  Butsu 

Ishi  -botoke. 
SUTSUMI 

Where  did  you  learn  that  song,  my  lady?  That 
is  not  one  of  my  songs. 
TAMA 

(laughing  gaily)  I  heard  it  on  the  street.  A 
funny  little  boy  was  singing  it.  It  is  such  an 
amusing  little  song.  Does  it  shock  you,  Sut- 
sumi? 

SUTSUMI 

If  your  lord  should  hear  that  song  and  believe 
that  it  was  I  who  taught  it  to  you — 

TAMA 

He  will  never  hear  it.     (Laughs  gaily.) 

SUTSUMI 

I  cannot  see  why  you  laugh,  my  lady. 
TAMA 

The  sunlight.  You  do  not  see  the  sunlight, 
Sutsumi.  It  is  dancing  on  the  floor — up  from 
my  pool  in  the  garden.  Oh,  I  am  so  happy  to 
day  !  I  feel  like  a  young  tree.  I  am  the  child 
who  has  no  punishment.  You  are  so  funny, 
Sutsumi,  with  your  dark,  still  face.  It  is  like 
the  august  house  of  the  Kami  with  the  never- 
opening  doors. 
SUTSUMI 

When  you  have  known  all  the  sorrow  I  have 
known —     The  cherry  blossom  lasts  for  half 
a  week,  but  sin  and  sorrow  last  all  the  year. 
215 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

TAMA 

I  hate  sad  people.  (Sitting  beside  him)  Tell 
me  something  about  life,  then,  since  you  know 
so  much  about  it. 

SUTSUMI 

And  do  you  know  nothing  about  life,  my  lady? 

TAMA 

Only  what  nice  women  know.  From  the  time 
I  was  a  child  until  I  was  fifteen  I  had  a  few 
lessons — how  to  sew  and  how  to  sit  and  how 
to  arrange  flowers  and  pour  tea  and  those  fairy 
tales  they  tell  us  about  the  people  in  other  lands. 
And,  of  course,  always  the  talk  of  the  old 
women  about  how  children  are  born. 
SUTSUMI 

You  were  well  educated. 

TAMA 

Then  one  day  my  father  said  to  me,  Tama,  you 
are  to  have  a  husband.  The  day  of  splendor 
has  come,  I  said  to  myself.  Well,  he  came  to 
see  me.  Our  parents  did  all  the  talking.  I 
saw  him  only  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eyes.  But 
I  kept  saying  to  myself:  This  my  husband! 
This  august  monkey!  This  honorable  grand 
father!  This  mountain  of  cruelty! 
SUTSUMI 

I  hope  you  obeyed  your  father's  wishes? 

TAMA 

Oh,  yes!  I  am  the  daughter  of  a  samurai.  I 
was  brought  up  in  obedience.  It  is  life,  I  said. 
Life  is  not  for  love.  Love  is  for  the  gods  and 
geishas.  We  were  married.  I  received  more 
bright  silks  for  my  dowry  than  any  maiden  in 
216 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

my  town,  and  the  gifts  that  passed  back  and 
forth  were  worthy  of  royalty. 

SUTSUMI 

You  were  happy? 

TAMA 

No.  Bright  silks  and  a  dowry  of  nice  things 
do  not  make  a  happy  marriage.  My  mother- 
in-law  showed  me  the  way  of  hell.  I  soon  went 
home  to  my  father's  house.  That  is  all  I  know 
about  life,  Sutsumi. 

SUTSUMI 

Your  second  lord  is  kind  and  rich.  You  are 
happy  now? 

TAMA 

Yes,  he  is  kind.     He  never  scolds  me,  and  he 
never  reproaches  me  for  having  no  children. 
But  who  knows,  that  may  not  be  entirely  my 
fault. 
SUTSUMI 
My  lady  1 

TAMA 

Your  being  blind  makes  me  believe  you  deaf 
also.  (Suddenly  catching  up  the  samisen)  Let 
us  sing  a  song  that  is  gay — gay  as  a  blue  sky 
in  a  clear  pool  where  there  are  lotus  flowers, 
and  swans  with  proud  necks,  and  the  mysterious 
faces  of  two  lovers  who  are  vowed  to  each  other 
for  seven  lives. 

SUTSUMI 

I  know  no  such  song. 
TAMA 

Then  invent  one. 

217 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

SUTSUMI 

My  heart  has  no  clear  pools — only  valleys  of 
snow. 

TAMA 

Then  I  will.    (Plays  and  recites) 

How  dark  is  the  pool. 

But  now  a  soft  light  shines  there — 

Two  lovers  are  drinking — 

They  do  not  see  their  shadows 

Among  the  watery  flowers. 
SUTSUMI 

That  is  not  gay,  my  lady.  Shadows  mean  death. 

TAMA 

Some  spirit  compelled  me.  I  will  sing  a  gay 
song  now.  (She  starts  to  play,  but  as  she  does 
so  the  string  of  her  samisen  snaps.) 

SUTSUMI  (startled) 
What  was  that? 

TAMA 

The  string  of  my  samisen  snapped. 
SUTSUMI  (mysteriously) 

Do  you  know  what  that  means  ? 
TAMA 

It  means  something,  Sutsumi? 

SUTSUMI 

The  dancing  girls  have  a  superstition,  that  when 
the  string  of  the  samisen  snaps  lovers  will  be 
parted. 
TAMA  (rising) 

Lovers  will  be  parted ! 

SUTSUMI 

Lovers;  not  husband  and  wife! 
218 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

TAMA  (alarmed). 

Yes — lovers.  Sutsumi,  my  lesson  is  ended  for 
to-day.  You  may  leave  me  now. 

SUTSUMI 

Surely  an  honorable  wife  can  have  nothing  to 
fear  from  the  snapping  of  the  samisen  string. 

TAMA 

To  fear?  I  do  not  fear.  Please  go  now,  Sut 
sumi. 

SUTSUMI 

My  lady,  your  voice  is  like  the  trembling  of 
leaves. 

TAMA 

An  evil  spirit  possessed  my  song — that  is  all. 

SUTSUMI 

Let  me  take  your  samisen.  I  will  put  in  a  new 
string. 

TAMA 

(clinging  to  It)     No!    No!    I  will  keep  my 
samisen ! 
SUTSUMI 

(preparing  to  go)  As  my  lady  wishes.  (Feel 
ing  about  with  his  stick)  That  is  the  way  to 
my  lady's  apartments.  There  is  the  shoji. 
There  is  the  entrance  to  my  lady's  house.  Am 
I  right? 

TAMA 

(handing  something  he  has  dropped)  Yes, 
you  are  right,  Sutsumi.  (Leading  him  bacti) 
It  is  fortunate  to  be  old  and  blind.  Then  one 
sees  only  the  light.  One  is  not  groping  in  the 
dark  ways  of  love. 

219 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

SUTSUMI 

The  honorable  lady  and  the  dancing  girl  arc 
both  flowers — but  they  bloom  in  different  sea 
sons.  (Bowing  very  low)  My  lady — my  lady 
has  nothing  to  fear. 

TAMA 

Good-bye,  Sutsumi. 
SUTSUMI 

(bowing  low  at  the  door)    Good-bye,  my  lady. 

(Sutsumi  goes  out.     Tama  sits  and  takes  her 

samisen  and  places  a  new  string  in  it.    Hatsu 

enters  presently  in  great  excitement.) 
HATSU 

My  lady ! 
TAMA  (impatiently) 

Don't  breathe  so  loud.     What  is  wrong  with 

you? 

HATSU 

.    The  teacher  of  the  samisen ! 

TAMA 

(after  a  moment)     Coming  now? 

HATSU 

Here,  my  lady !  He  has  taken  off  his  disguise 
at  the  outer  door. 

TAMA 

(in  excitement)  Hurry!  Bring  me  my  toilet 
case.  I  look  like  an  old  hag.  Where  is  my 
new  kimono?  Oh,  Hatsu,  why  did  you  make 
me  wear  this  ugly  thing  to-day?  Hurry!  (She 
rushes  to  back  and  gets  a  heavy  silk  kimono  of 
rich  embroidery,  which  she  puts  on  over  the 
other.  Hatsu  brings  the  toilet  case  and  Tama 
220 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

sits  before  it  and  powders  her  face  and  darkens 

her  lips.) 
HATSU 

Here  he  is,  my  lady!     (Tama  rises  in  great 

confusion,  but  controls  herself  and  waits  with 

dignity  and  calm.    Arinori  Okubo  enters.) 
ARINORI  (bowing) 

My  lady ! 
TAMA  (bowing) 

My  lord!     (To  Hatsu,  who  lingers)     Hatsu! 

(Hatsu  runs  out,  taking  the  toilet  case  with 

her.) 

ARINORI 

It  is  I! 

TAMA 

Arinori ! 

ARINORI 

You  did  not  expect  me,  then? 
TAMA 

No.    I  thought  it  was  only  my  old  blind  teacher. 
ARINORI  (ardently) 

My  beautiful  one ! 

TAMA 

Do  not  come  too  close.  Your  face  is  like  the 
moon,  Arinori — rising  after  a  night  of  pain. 
Stay  there.  I  cannot  breathe  when  my  life  is 
coming  back  to  me  so  fast.  The  gods  when 
they  visit  the  earth  must  know  how  sweet  it  is 
to  breathe  after  so  long  a  breathlessness. 

ARINORI 

My  hands  have  thirsted  for  your  touch.  (He 
takes  her  hands.) 

221 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

TAMA 

Oh,  sacred  sin  of  loving!  I  am  ready  to  join 
a  thousand  restless  demons  and  go  wailing  about 
the  earth  forever  for  the  sake  of  this  moment. 

ARINORI 

Your  lips  are  like  the  sake  wine  they  prepare 
for  children  at  The  Feast  of  Dolls. 

ARINORI 

My  love! 

TAMA 

My  lord!     (They  embrace.) 

ARINORI 

Tama,  my  child,  you  must  listen  to  me.  Sit 
here.  I  must  tell  you  something  of  importance. 
Where  is  your  maid? 

TAMA  (loudly) 

At  the  screen  listening.  (Laughing  as  Hatsu 
is  heard  running  away)  Wherever  Hatsu 
goes  there  are  holes  in  the  shoji.  My  love, 
your  face  to-day  is  as  fierce  and  brilliant  as  the 
sun  himself.  What  is  the  matter? 

ARINORI 

Tama,  there  is  one  in  the  city  who  is  plotting 
against  me  and  my  kind — the  noble  samurai. 
He  has  raised  ant  hills  of  spies  against  us.  Our 
privileges  are  being  encroached  upon — our  im 
mortal  rights.  Our  very  lives  are  in  danger 
from  this  man,  such  an  evil  power  he  has.  And 
to  meet  him  no  one  would  know — not  even 
those  who  live  in  the  same  house  with  him 
would  suspect — that  he  is  possessed  of  a  thou 
sand  devils. 

222 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

TAMA 

Arinori,  the  man  must  be  a  demon  to  plot 
against  you.  But  why  do  you  come  here  to  talk 
of  such  rough  things?  You  have  not  even  told 
me  that  I  look  beautiful. 

ARINORI 

You  do  look  beautiful.    You  always  look  beau- 
tiful. 
TAMA 

I  do  not  like  to  be  told  that  I  always  look  beau 
tiful.     I  like  to  be  told  that  I  look  beautiful 
now. 
ARINORI 

Tama,  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  samurai.    You 
must  give  me  your  help. 
TAMA 

Oh,  do  not  ask  me  to  do  anything  wicked,  Ari 
nori.  I  cannot  do  anything  evil.  I  am  just 
your  little  almond  flower.  Why  should  I  risk 
my  frailness  in  men's  rough  affairs? 

ARINORI 

Do  you  not  want  to  help  me,  Tama? 
TAMA  (seductively) 

I  will  help  you.  In  your  tea  house  by  the  river. 
The  priests  talk  about  paradise  in  eternity,  but 
we  know  better,  Arinori.  Hurry  there  now; 
I  will  meet  you. 

ARINORI 

This  is  serious,  Tama. 

TAMA 

Is  there  anything  more  serious  than  love? 

ARINORI 

There  is  death. 

223 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

TAMA 

Death  is  not  serious  at  all  when  it  is  for  love's 
sake. 
ARINORI 

There  is  one  thing  more  serious  than  love  and 
death. 

TAMA 

What  is  that? 

ARINORI 

There  is  duty. 

TAMA 

Duty!     Do  not  talk  to  me  of  duty.     To  hear 
people  talk  in  Japan  you  would  imagine  there 
was  nothing  in  life  but  duty. 
ARINORI 

Tama,  the  man  who  is  plotting  against  me  is 
Katsu  Mori. 

TAMA 

My  husband  I 

ARINORI 

Now  you  understand. 

TAMA 

My  husband!    You  are  his  enemy  then?    You, 
Arinori  Okubo? 

ARINORI 

He  is  my  enemy. 
TAMA 

You  two  are  enemies? 
ARINORI 

He  must  die. 

TAMA 

Oh,  no,  Arinori! 

224 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 


ARINORI 

He  is  starting  a  rebellion — he  wants  to  kill 
the  samurai.  He  is  a  dangerous  man.  If  his 
kind  is  allowed  to  live  they  will  crush  out  the 
flower  of  Japan,  her  beautiful  tradition  of  no 
bility  and  chivalry. 
TAMA 

He  only  wants  to  sell  his  silks,  Arinori.  I  know 
that.  He  has  told  me  so  hundreds  of  times. 
He  wants  to  be  allowed  to  trade  in  peace,  that 
is  all.  Hasn't  he  a  right  to  trade  ? 

ARINORI 

It  is  vulgar  to  trade.  He  must  die.  My  hon 
ored  father  is  dead.  I  have  no  brothers.  I 
alone  represent  the  dignity  of  my  house.  In 
the  honor  of  my  noble  name  I  must  kill  this 
man. 

TAMA 

But  my  husband,  Arinori ! 
ARINORI 

And  you  must  help  me. 

TAMA 

No,  no !    That  I  cannot  do.    Not  even  for  your 
sake,  Arinori.    Not  even  for  you. 
ARINORI 

(going  back)     You  do  not  love  me  then. 

TAMA 

(following  him)  Arinori,  what  are  you  say 
ing?  I  do  not  love  you !  Come,  we  will  think 
of  another  way.  I  will  think  of  something. 
Do  not  run  away  from  me.  Do  not  leave  me 
like  that.  (She  goes  on  her  knees  before  him) 
Do  not  be  cruel  to  me,  Arinori. 
15  225 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

ARINORI 

(turning,  threateningly)  You  will  do  as  I  wish  ? 

TAMA 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear — 

ARINORI 

Answer  me,  Tama. 

TAMA 

I  have  been  wicked.    I  have  been  drowning  in 
sweet  wine. 
ARINORI 

You  regret  my  love. 

TAMA 

I  cannot  sin  twice.    Ask  me  anything,  Arinori — 
anything  but  that. 
ARINORI 

I  demand  that  you  help  me,  Tama. 
TAMA 

(in  an  awed  voice)  Arinori,  do  you  know  that 
the  bond  between  husband  and  wife  is  sacred 
and  endures  for  two  lives? 

ARINORI 

Will  you  help  me? 

TAMA 

Your  voice  is  like  thunder.     It  is  shaking  my 
roots. 
ARINORI 
You  will? 

TAMA 

Think  of  what  you  ask  me,  my  beloved. 

ARINORI 

(going  back)  Everything  is  ended  from  now 
on. 

226 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 


TAMA 

(calling)    Arinori  1    Arinori ! 

ARINORI 

You  consent? 
TAMA 

(after  a  'pause — bowing  her  head  very  low) 

Yes. 

ARINORI 

(coming  near  her)  Listen  to  me,  Tama.  You 
must  see  that  he  returns  home  to-night. 

TAMA 

Yes. 

ARINORI 

He  has  stayed  out  the  whole  night  recently? 

TAMA 

Yes. 

ARINORI 

When  he  does  come  home  he  is  usually  late, 
is  he  not? 

TAMA 

Yes. 

ARINORI 

He  must  sleep  in  the  room  which  opens  to  the 
gallery — the  room  which  faces  the  garden. 

TAMA 

Yes — our  sleeping  room. 
ARINORI 

Your  sleeping  room,  yes.  You  must  have  a 
lantern.  When  he  is  asleep  you  must  pass  it 
back  and  forth  slowly — three  times — before 
the  shoji  of  his  room.  Do  you  understand? 

TAMA 

Three  times — slowly. 

227 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

ARINORI 

It  will  be  the  signal. 

TAMA 

The  signal. 

ARINORI 

We  will  come  from  the  street.  We  will  make 
our  escape  through  the  garden.  The  amada 
must  be  ready  for  us  to  pass  in.  My  sword  is 
the  carved  sword  of  my  ancestors.  It  will  kill 
him  augustly  and  with  honor. 
TAMA 

Yes. 

ARINORI 

Do  you  understand  all? 

TAMA 

Yes,  my  lord — all. 

ARINORI 

Rise  and  look  into  my  face,  Tama.  (She  rises 
and  goes  to  him)  Do  you  love  your  husband? 

TAMA 

I  love  you,  Arinori.  When  you  came  you  were 
the  answer  to  all  prayers.  You  were  the  vision 
of  all  dreams.  I  have  envied  none — not  even 
the  gods. 

ARINORI 

Your  servants  must  see  nothing.  They  must 
be  away. 

TAMA 

Everything  shall  be  done  as  you  say. 

ARINORI 

Three  times — slowly.     Do  you  remember? 

TAMA 

I  remember. 

228 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

ARINORI 

(putting  on  the  cloak  of  the  samisen  teacher) 
When  he  is  gone  there  will  be  no  more  separa 
tions. 

TAMA 

Arinori,  I  do  not  know  you  now.     Your  eyes 
are  as  terrible  as  a  blue-flaming  sword. 
ARINORI 

A  merchant  to  insult  a  samurai!  My  august 
father  ripped  open  his  own  bowels  with  his 
knife  rather  than  allow  an  inferior  to  conquer 
him.  My  sister  flung  herself  into  the  sea  to 
drown  rather  than  yield  to  her  father's  enemy 
— and  she  loved  him.  I  wear  the  armor  of  my 
ancestors  in  my  heart. 

TAMA 

I  bow  before  your  terribleness,  my  lord.  Your 
will  shall  be  obeyed. 

ARINORI 

Your  lover  will  be  yours  forever,  Tama — after 
to-night. 

TAMA 

After  to-night. 

ARINORI 

Remember  all  that  I  have  told  you — and  be 
cautious. 
TAMA 

I  will  be  cautious.  (He  goes  out  with  much 
dignity.  Tama  stands  awed  and  frightened. 
Then  she  calls  faintly — Hatsu!) 

HATSU 

(entering)  Yes,  my  lady !  What  is  the  mat 
ter,  my  lady? 

229 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


TAMA 

Nothing — nothing  is  the  matter.  Only  that  I 
am  a  woman.  The  silver  crown  of  sorrow  that 
all  women  must  wear  is  coming  down  upon  my 
white  forehead.  I  am  a  daughter  blessed  by 
the  gods.  I  am  a  child  with  no  punishments. 
But  the  gods  are  men  and  the  world  is  the  dwell 
ing  place  of  men.  We  are  only  the  pleasure 
flowers  who  suffer  eternally  that  we  may  be 
fragrant  for  a  single  day. 
HATSU 

I  never  saw  my  lady  sad. 

TAMA 

No.  I  was  playing  a  game.  I  was  a  may-fly 
who  pretends  that  one  summer  day  will  last 
forever.  But  how  quickly  the  cold  night  comes. 
(She  shudders.) 

HATSU 

My  lady!  (She  begins  to  whimper  and  wipe 
her  eyes  with  her  sleeve.) 

TAMA 

(stamping  her  foot)  Hatsu !  I  am  a  daughter 
of  a  samurai.  I  despise  your  wet  sleeve.  Go 
and  leave  me  alone. 

HATSU 

Yes,  my  lady.  (She  goes  out.  Tama,  after  a 
moment,  picks  up  her  samisen  listlessly  and  ex 
amines  the  new  string.  She  then  sits  down  and 
plays,  singing  in  a  strained  voice  which  attempts 
to  be  gay.) 

Adana  e — gao  ni 
May  o  wanu  mono  wa 

230 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

Ki-Butsu — Kana-Butsu 
Ishi — botoke. 

END  OF  SCENE 

The  curtain  goes  up  almost  at  once.  It  is  the  same 
room  arranged  as  a  sleeping  room.  Hatsu  is 
unrolling  the  beds  for  the  night.  The  small 
lacquer  table  is  placed  at  right.  On  the  right 
wall,  well  forward,  a  large  red  lacquer  chest. 
Lighted  lanterns,  one  right  and  one  left,  well 
down.  A  faint  light  comes  through  the  shoji 
at  right  from  a  lantern  outside.  Tama  enters. 

TAMA 

My  lord  has  come  at  last. 
HATSU 

Yes,  my  lady.     Everything  is  ready.     I  will 
bring  the  tea. 

TAMA 

Yes,  bring  the  tea,  Hatsu.   (Katsu  Mori  enters. 

He  is  a  large  man,  past  middle  age.) 
TAMA  (bowing) 

My  lord! 
KATSU 

Tama!  Still  awake?    It  is  very  late. 

TAMA 

I  waited  for  you,  my  lord. 

KATSU 

(seating  himself  with  satisfaction  on  the  mat 
furthest  left)  How  quiet  is  my  own  home  after 
the  harsh  voices  of  men.  Why  do  we  strive 
for  riches  in  this  world,  Tama,  when  the  mats 
are  ready  laid  at  home  ?  (Hatsu  enters,  bring- 
231 


THE  PROVIXCETOWX  PLAYS 

a  small  lacquer  tray  with  tea.  She  places 
this  ox  the  table  before  Tama.  She  the*  goes 
to  close  the  amada  (the  wooden  outside  shut 
ters.) 

TAMA 

(as  Hatsu  puts  down  the  tea)     Thank 

Hatsu.  (as  Hatsu  is  about  to  close  the  shut 

ters)   ^Do  not  close  the  amada,  Hatsu;  I  must 

have  air  to-night. 
HAT- 

I  thought  your  lord  — 
KATSU 

The  amada  must  be  closed;  it  may  rain.    It  is 

almost  morning. 

TAMA 

I  have  a  headache.  I  cannot  breathe  when  the 
amada  is  tight  shut.  May  she  not  leave  the 
amada  open  a  little  on  that  side,  my  lord  ? 


[  was  thinking  only  of  your  health,  Tama. 
Leave  the  amada  open,  Hatsu. 
HATSU 

Yes,  master.  (To  Tama)  Everything  is  at 
tended  to,  my  lady.  Good-night,  my  master 
and  mistress.  (She  goes  out.) 

TAMA 

Will  you  have  tea  now,  Katsu? 

KAT- 

Thank  you,  Tama.  (He  lights  a  pipe  which 
stands  on  a  low  table  at  his  bedside)  The  life 
of  a  woman  is  an  easy  one.  Singing  songs  and 
being  beautiful  and  living  only  for  love.  It  is 
only  men  who  know  how  evil  the  world  is. 
232 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 


TAMA 

We  live  only  to  please,  Katsu. 

KATSU 

My  friends  tell  me  that  I  have  a  self-willed  wife, 
who  reads  too  many  romantic  books.  But  you 
are  always  gentle  and  obedient,  Tama. 

TAMA 

I  hope  I  have  pleased  you,  my  lord. 

KATSU 

Your  first  husband  spoiled  you.  That  is  why 
you  ran  away  from  him.  But  I  do  not  spoil 
you.  I  demand  obedience  and  modesty  in  a 
woman.  You  do  not  have  children,  it  is  true; 
but  who  knows,  there  may  be  some  spell  upon 
you. 

TAMA 

Katsu — 

KATSU 

All  tell  me  that  I  should  have  concubines  in  my 
house  that  I  might  have  a  son  and  heir.    But  I 
cannot  do  it.    When  the  lotus  flower  blooms  in 
the  pool  you  do  not  plant  weeds. 
TAMA 

Thank  you,  Katsu.  (She  rises  and  takes  him 
a  cup  of  tea,  which  she  accidentally  drops, 
breaking  the  thin  cup  to  pieces)  Oh,  Katsu, 
what  have  I  done?  May  the  gods  punish  me 
for  being  so  clumsy!  I  have  never  dropped  a 
tea  cup  before  in  my  life.  Katsu,  forgive  me. 

KATSU 

Your  hand  is  trembling.    What  is  the  matter? 

TAMA 

I  have  something  to  tell  you. 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

KATSU  (stretching) 

I  am  too  ready  for  sleep.    It  is  late.    It  will  not 

be  long  before  the  bell  rings  in  the  temple. 
TAMA 

I  must  tell  you,  Katsu.    Two  things  happened : 

I  sang  a  song  and  shadows  came  into  it,  when 

I  willed  only  the  sun.    And — the  string  of  my 

samisen  snapped. 
KATSU 

What  do  you  know  of  such  things?     That  is 

the  talk  of  dancing  girls. 
TAMA 

Sutsumi   told  me.      It   means   lovers   parting. 

Katsu,  we  must  part  to-night — at  once.    Your 

life  is  in  danger. 
KATSU 

Tama,  what  is  this?     (Jumps  to  his  feet.) 

TAMA 

There  is  a  plot  against  you.  I  heard  it  to-day. 
They  are  coming  here — here  to  this  room — 
they  are  just  waiting  for  you  to  sleep  so  that 
they  can  kill  you. 

KATSU 

My  enemies  are  planning  this  to-night?  Tama, 
how  could  you  hear  this? 

TAMA 

Don't  ask  me.  You  must  run  away.  You  must 
go  at  once — every  minute  is  precious.  We 
haven't  a  minute  now.  I  have  planned  every 
thing. 

KATSU 

I  do  not  know  what  to  believe.    How  can  you 

234 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

plan  for  me?  What  am  I  to  do?  I  do  not 
understand  all  this. 

TAMA 

Go;  do  not  stand  and  talk.  Katsu,  hurry — 
hurry  for  your  life.  Go  out  along  the  path 
under  the  arbor  to  the  pool.  By  the  gate  Sut- 
sumi  waits  for  you— he  knows  everything — he 
knows  the  way — he  can  find  his  way  in  the  dark. 
Trust  yourself  into  his  hands. 
KATSU 

How  can  I  let  a  woman  make  plans  for  me — 
and  trust  myself  into  a  blind  man's  hands?  I 
will  not  go ;  I  will  stay  and  defend  myself. 

TAMA 

Do  not  be  too  proud  to  let  me  help  you,  Katsu. 
Do  as  I  ask.  Even  if  you  stay — there  are  other 
nights.  They  will  find  a  way  to  get  in.  You 
cannot  always  be  on  guard.  Katsu,  go !  Every 
minute  you  stay  makes  it  so  hard  for  me. 

KATSU 

Why  for  you? 
TAMA 

Because  I  am  concerned  for  your  sake.    Go — 

go  for  the  honor  of  your  name. 
KATSU 

How  do  I  know  if  this  is  true  ?    It  may  be  some 

lie  that  has  been  told  to  frighten  me  and  make 

me  ridiculous.     How  can  you,  a  woman,  hear 

of  such  plots? 

TAMA 

I  know — I  know  it  all.  I  even  know  your  ene 
my's  name, 

235 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

KATSU 

You  know  my  enemy's  name ! 
TAMA 

It  is  Arinori  Okubo. 
KATSU 

You  do  know.    He  has  planned  to  kill  me,  then. 

I  will  stay  and  fight  him. 

TAMA 

Katsu,  go — I  beg  of  you  to  go.  For  the  honor 
of  our  house,  for  the  honor  of  your  name.  You 
cannot  fight  him;  he  is  a  samurai  and  skilled  in 
the  art  of  the  sword.  If  you  are  killed  there 
will  be  another  war  between  the  merchants  and 
the  samurai. 

KATSU 

And  if  I  go — 
TAMA 

You  see — you  know  I  speak  the  truth.     It  is 

right.    That  is  why  my  samisen  string  snapped 

to-day. 
KATSU 

But  you,  Tama ! 

TAMA 

They  will  not  harm  a  woman. 
KATSU 

Then —    (Turns  toward  the  shojl  left.) 
TAMA  (anxiously) 

Then — 

KATSU 

I  will  go — for  the  sake  of  peace  and  the  honor 
of  my  house.  (He  opens  the  amada,  left,  and 
stands  ready  to  go.) 

236 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 

TAMA 

(going  to  him)  Along  the  path  under  the  ar 
bor.  Sutsumi  waits  for  you  by  the  gate.  Do 
everything  Sutsumi  says.  (Kneeling)  My  lord, 
if  I  have  not  always  been  obedient  and  gen 
tle,  I  beg  of  you  to  forgive  me.  I  have  been 
self-willed — I  have  been  ambitious  and  read  too 
much  from  books  about  matters  which  are  only 
for  my  superiors — my  lord  and  his  friends.  In 
my  blood  is  the  proud  strain  of  the  samurai. 
I  have  not  bowed  to  my  lord  as  I  should  have 
done. 
KATSU 

(putting  his  hand  on  her  head)  I  forgive  you 
all,  Tama.  I  go  unwillingly  because  you  wish 
it.  Protect  the  honor  of  my  house  like  a  brave 
daughter  of  the  samurai.  (He  goes  out.  Dur 
ing  the  following  the  light  of  dawn  gradually 
comes  through  the  shoji.  Tama  goes  to  the 
table,  right,  and  writes  a  letter.  She  then  goes 
to  the  chest,  right,  and  gets  a  white  silk  kimono, 
which  she  puts  on  over  the  other  kimono.  She 
gets  a  thick,  red  belt  from  the  chest,  which  she 
takes  with  her  to  the  bed  nearest  the  left  shoji. 
With  this  belt  she  fastens  her  legs  tightly  to 
gether.  She  has  laid  the  letter  before  her  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  lies  down  on  the  mat 
and  pulls  a  thick,  silk  quilt  over  her  so  that 
only  the  top  of  her  head  is  visible.  Hatsu  en 
ters.  She  carries  a  lantern.  She  goes,  right, 
and  pulls  back  the  amada  the  entire  distance 
it  will  go.) 

237 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

TAMA 

Hatsu  1 

HATSU  (tremulously) 
Oh,  my  lady! 

TAMA 

Are  you  ready? 
HATSU 

I  am  so  afraid! 

TAMA 

Quick!  (Hatsu  goes  falterlngly  to  the  shoji, 
right,  and  waves  the  lantern  across  it  three 
times  slowly.  She  opens  the  shoji  and  three 
men  come  in.  Arinori  rushes  to  the  bed  and 
stabs  into  the  quilt  with  his  sword.  Hatsu  ut 
ters  a  cry  of  horror.) 
ARINORI 

(coming  forward)     Katsu  Mori  is  no  longer 
my  enemy.     (As  he  s'heathes  his  sword  he  sees 
Tama's  letter  and  picks  it  up)    Reads — 
As  the  shadow  to  the  tree, 
As  the  kernal  to  the  fruit, 
So  am  I  to  thee. 

But  the  wife  heart  cannot  beat  in  disobedience ; 
The  red  blood  of  Tama 

Will  wash  away  the  quarrel  of  lord  and  lover. 
TAMA  (moaning) 
Arinori ! 

ARINORI 

(rushing  to  her)  Tama  !  What  is  this  ?  What 
have  I  done?  Oh,  the  gods  have  hated  me! 
My  darling !  (He  pulls  back  the  quilt  and  sees 
her  wounded)  Tama !  (He  lifts  her  in  his 
arms)  My  flower  I  My  beautiful  moon ! 

238 


THE  STRING  OF  THE  SAMISEN 


HATSU 

(coming  forward)     My  lady!     My  mistress! 
Tama-san  I 

ARINORI 

Bring  water — bring  help.  Tama,  look  at  me ! 
It  is  I,  Arinori !  Oh,  what  is  this  ?  What  have 
you  done  ?  Oh,  my  little  one !  My  little  silver 
moon !  Put  your  arms  around  me  once  more ! 
(As  Hatsu  bends  over — thrusting  her  away) 
No,  it  is  too  late.  Nothing  can  help  now.  The 
cruel  sword  of  my  ancestors  never  fails.  It 
has  found  its  mark  in  the  red  heart  of  my  be 
loved.  (He  lifts  Tama  gently  and  puts  her 
back  on  the  mat,  and  kneels  beside  her.  A  clear 
sound  of  a  bell  ringing  is  heard.  Day  has  come.) 
HATSU  (softly) 

It  is  the-dawn  bell  of  Buddha. 

THE   END 


*39 


NOT  SMART 

A  FARCE  IN  ONE  ACT 
BY  WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE 


CHARACTERS 

MILO  TATE 

FANNIE  TATE,  his  Wife 
MRS.  PAINTER 
MATTIE,  the  Maid 
MR.  SNOW,  Fisherman 

TIME — Late  this  Summer 
PLACE — A  Cape  Cod  Village 


NOT  SMART 

SCENE — The  living  room  of  a  typical  shore  cot 
tage — the  rented  kind;  outer  door,  rear  center; 
door  to  kitchen,  left;  writing  desk  against  wall, 
right;  two  or  three  chairs,  cheap  stand,  etc. 

Curtain  discovers  Milo  stretched  on  the  couch 
reading  a  magazine,  and  Fannie  writing  at  the 
desk.  Milo  closes  the  magazine  slowly,  holds 
it  away  from  him  over  the  edge  of  the  couch 
and,  with  an  expression  of  exhausted  hopeless 
ness,  lets  it  fall  to  the  floor.  He  groans  feebly. 

MILO 

What's  the  use?    What's  the  use? 

FANNIE 

(turning  a  face,  sympathetic  but  preoccupied) 
Something  in  the  magazine,  dear? 
MILO 

(letting  his  feet  hang  over,  speaks  in  a  wearied, 
sing-song  voice)  The  strange  woman's  face  in 
the  throng — pale,  alluring,  baffling — with  lips 
like  the  poppy — and  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
wind  carving  her  figure  as  in  warm  and  sentient 
marble.  Ankles  and  so  on.  Perfectly  inflamed, 
our  hero  pursues  her,  careless  of  the  hereafter, 
reckless  of  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Of  a  sud 
den,  a  vision  of  his  beloved  one — at  home,  you 
know — right  in  the  middle  of  the  street — flam- 

243 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

ing  sword  sort  of  thing — and— and — I  didn't 
read  any  further.  I  don't  need  to.  I  know 
he'll  turn  around  and  go  home,  Fannie.  Home! 

FANNIE 

(still  busy  with  her  letter)    Fancy ! 
MILO 

(starting  tip  with  a  feverish  energy  and  kicking 
the  magazine  across  the  floor)  They're  all  the 
same.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  America ! 
(Relapses  on  the  couch,  crosses  his  arms  over 
his  head  and  goes  on  speaking  to  the  ceiling  in 
a  tone  of  musing)  Thank  God — er — that  is — 
the  gods — nothing  like  that  can  ever  happen  to 
us.  Isn't  it  fearful  to  think  of  one's  spirit 
cooped  up  between  four  narrow  walls  like  that? 
(Fannie  nods,  without  turning  her  head)  Now 
/  would  have  followed  that  ankle,  wouldn't  I  ? 
I  would  have  followed  it  till  it — till  it  turned 
to  ashes  in  my — huh-hum — well,  you  know. 
And  then,  when  I  came  back  to  you  enriched, 
bringing  the  spoils  of  a  profound  experience, 
Fannie — you  wouldn't  mind ! 

FANNIE 

(looking  up  now)  Mind?  Why  should  I  mind, 
Milo?  Can  a  thing  of  that  sort  tamper  with 
the  essential  qualities  of  our  relationship?  No, 
No !  We've  learned  better  than  that,  you  and  I. 

MILO 

(sitting  up  again,  with  waxing  enthusiasm)  And 
you!  You'll  always  feel  quite  free,  too?  You'll 
never  let  the  silly  little  inhibitions — 
FANNIE  (energetically) 

No,  no ! 

244 


NOT  SMART 


MILO 

Some  day  there  may  be  a  nice  chap — I'd  rather 
have  it  a  nice  chap — 

FANNIE 

Like  Mort,  say. 
MILO 

(with  a  slight  start)  Mort  Painter?  (Fannie's 
attention  has  returned  to  her  letter  once  more. 
She  folds  it,  puts  it  in  an  envelope  and  addresses 
it.  Milo,  studying  her  with  a  light  of  uneasy 
speculation,  goes  on  after  a  moment)  I'm 
afraid  it  would  raise  a  bit  of  the  devil  in  the 
Painter  house,  Fannie;  that's  all.  You  know, 
Mrs.  Painter  isn't  exactly — our  kind.  (Fannie, 
still  about  her  business,  rises  and  places  the  let 
ter  among  others  on  top  of  the  desk.  After 
another  moment,  Milo  breaks  out  in  a  tone  of 
obvious  relief)  But  he  isn't  home,  you  know. 

FANNIE 

(turning  suddenly  to  face  him)  And  why  isn't 
he  home?  Why  is  he  staying  away  so  long? 
It's  over  two  months  now  that  he's  been  away. 

MILO 

(at  a  loss)  Why — why — I  don't  know.  He 
probably  finds  the  fishing  good  down  there  in 
Maine,  or  wherever  he  is.  I — I  hadn't  thought. 

FANNIE 

/  had.  Milo,  there's  something  in  the  wood 
pile,  I  tell  you.  Mrs.  Painter  is  distinctly  eva 
sive.  It's  all  so  unnatural.  We  all  came  down 
to  this  corner  of  the  shore  to  have  a  nice,  quiet 
summer.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  he  packs  up 
and  is  gone  over  night — and  no  sign  of  his 

245 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

coming  back.     There's  something  behind  it, 
*     Milo. 

MILO 

(rising  and  pacing  the  floor  —  petulantly) 
Pshaw-pshawl  There's  the  woman  cropping 
out.  Pshaw !  Why  shouldn't  he  go  off  fishing 
and  stay  as  long  as  he  wants  to? 

FANNIE 

(ignoring  the  outburst)  I've  been  thinking  of 
nothing  for  a  week  but  Mort. 

MILO 

(stopping  short  and  staring  at  her)  You  have! 
(After  an  instant  of  confrontation,  he  sits  down 
weakly  on  the  couch,  mops  his  brow  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  then  recovers  himself  suffi 
ciently  to  resume  in  a  tone  tinctured  with  venom) 
I  must  say,  Fannie,  this  rather  sudden  interest 
in  one  of  my  oldest  friends — 

FANNIE 

You  don't  mind? 

MILO 

Mind?  (He  has  the  grace  to  blush)  Oh, 
m-m-mind?  Why,  good  heavens,  Fannie,  wh- 
wh-why  should  I  mind? 

FANNIE 

I  knew  you  wouldn't.     And,  after  all,  it's  his 
wife    I'm    concerned    about.      Poor    thing — 
stranded  here  all  alone. 
MILO 

(more  than  ever  ashamed  of  himself,  ^mopping 
his  brow  vigorously)  Whew !  It's  darned  hot, 
I  say !  I  think  I'll  have  a  glass  of  milk,  if  you'd 
be  so  good,  Fannie.  That's  a  dear.  (As  Fan- 
246 


NOT  SMART 


me  crosses  to  door  at  left  and  calls  out)  Mattiel 
Mattie!  (Voice  of -stage)  Huh? 

FANNIE 

Bring  Mr.  Tate  a  glass  of  milk — right  away. 
And  how  many  times  have  I  told  you  to  say 
"ma'am"  when  you  speak  to  me? 
MILO  (deprecatingly) 

Why  should  she  say  ma'am?  After  all,  my 
dear,  you  know  she  is — 

FANNIE 

(turning  upon  him  with  some  petulance)  There 
are  times,  Milo,  when  your  theories — 

MILO  (quickly) 

My  theories,  Frances,  are  identical  with  yours; 
the  only  point  of  variance  being  that  /  am  will- 
ing to  practice  them  at  home.  (Rising,  he  trans- 
fixes his  wife  with  a  didactic  forefinger)  We 
all  talk  so  largely  of  the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 
And  yet  here  is  a  young  girl,  a  really  splendid 
sort  of  a  creature  in  a  way,  living  close  to  the 
throbbing  heart  of  Mother  Earth. 

FRANCES  (interrupting ^ 

Close  to  the  throbbing  heart  of  the  kitchen 
range,  you'd  better  say.  For  all  your  fine  talk, 
you  don't  know  any  more  about  her  than  I  do, 
and  that's  not  a  blessed  thing — not  one  single 
blessed  thing,  Milo.  For  all  we  know,  she  may 
be — oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  Milo,  stop  looking 
that  way ! 

MILO 

(resuming    with    a    heavy,    ironical   patience) 
Living  close  to  the  throbbing  heart  of  Mother 
Earth,  feeling  the  life-pulse  of  the  Cosmos — 
247 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

well — damn  it  all — she's  precisely  the  kind  of 
thing  we  write  about  and  talk  and  make  ges- 
tures about,  the  lot  of  us — you  know.     Only 
she  is  it.     She  lives  it.     She's  got  something 
we've  lost.     Sometimes,  you  know,  my  dear,  I 
almost  feel — I  do  feel — in  a  way — 
FANNIE  (coolly) 
Yes? 

MILO 

A  strange  spiritual  bond  with  that  creature — 
something  drawing  me — irresistibly — like  the 
pull  of  green  things  and  the  damp  earth — weird 
— almost — ah — Pliocene — ugh — by  the  way, 
you  don't  mind? 

FANNIE  (with  difficulty) 
Mind? 

MILO 

(chin  in  hand)  In  a  way,  you  know,  she's  got 
something  or  other  that  we —  (Enter  Mat- 
tie  ,  carrying  a  glass  of  milk  on  a  server.) 

MILO 

Ah!  (With  an  unwonted  energy  he  moves  a 
small  stand  beside  the  couch,  half  reclines,  and 
waves  Mattie  to  deposit  the  glass  on  the  stand. 
As  she  does  so  he  gently  captures  her  hand  in 
his.  She  endeavors  to  recover  it,  profoundly 
embarrassed,  casts  a  frightened  glance  at  the 
.  mistress,  then,  evidently  deciding  in  her  numb 
and  docile  brain  that  this  is  the  accepted  thing, 
remains  inert,  staring  ponderously  at  her  boot- 
toes.  Milo  resumes  in  a  tone  of  dreaming)  I 
wonder  if  you've  ever  thought  much  about  your- 
self, Mattie?  You  wouldn't,  though.  You 
248 


NOT  SMART 


wouldn't — that's  just  the  matter  with  us.  No, 
of  course  you  wouldn't — (Turning  to  Fannie) 
She  wouldn't,  would  she?  (Turning  back) 
We've  been  wondering  if  you  knew  how  won- 
derful you  are,  Mattie  ?  Because  you  are  won- 
derful. You're  out  of  your  age.  In  a  world 
staggering  under  a  Freud,  a  Trotsky,  a  Mar- 
coni, the  Republic  of  China,  and  the  Imagist 
Poets — you've  managed  somehow  to  slip  back 
to  the  great,  all-brooding  fundamentals — Food 
—Shelter — Procreation — 

FANNIE 

Milo! 

MILO 

(impatiently,  to  Fannie)  That,  I  believe,  is  the 
order  in  which  they  come.  (Lights  cigarette) 
Or — perhaps  I'm  wrong.  Of  course,  my  dear, 
if  you  want  to  get  into  philosophies  and  meta- 
physics— I  grant  you  the  old  argument — does 
the  hen  come  first  and  the  egg  second,  or  the 
egg  first  and  the  hen — 

FANNIE 

Milo!    That  is  a  young  girl!    (Exit  Mattie.) 

MILO 

(with  an  air  of  hopelessness,  shaking  his  head 
slowly)  Frances,  Frances,  are  we  to  be  always 
like  that?  Always  slipping  back  into  the  old 
fog-bound  superstitions  of  the  mid-Victorian 
home? 

FANNIE 

Oh,  be  quiet,  please.    It  isn't  that !    You  ought 
to  know  me  well  enough  by  this  time.     But — 
but  she  wouldn't  understand.     If  she  could  un- 
249 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

derstand — if  it  would  do  her  any  good — en- 
large her  life — in  the  least,  Milo — 

MILO 

Understand?     Of  course  she  doesn't  under- 
stand.   Do  we  want  her  to  understand,  my  dear 
firl?    Enlarge  her  life?    Look,  here,  my  dear, 
'm  serious.     That  girl  has  got  something  or 
other  that  neither  you  nor  I — or  any  of  us  in 
the — the  group — could  come  to  in  a  thousand 
years  of  self-centered  and  spiritual  crucifixion — 
She  has  got — 
FANNIE  (ironically) 

Exactly  what?     (Rising.) 

MILO 

(inexpressibly  shocked  at  the  Philistine  ques- 
tion) Why,  Fannie!  Why — why,  she  has  got 
— she's  got — see  here,  Frances,  you  know  what 
I  mean  as  well  as  I  do.  For  heaven's  sake, 
after  two  years  of  our  talks — our  trying  to 
find  the — the — in  our  little  group,  you  know — 
Look  here,  Fannie,  you've  talked  as  primitive 
as  anyone.  And  now  you  stand  there  and  ask — 
(Glancing  out  of  the  window,  he  speaks  with 
an  air  of  relief  at  the  diversion)  Oh,  here 
comes  Mrs.  Painter  up  the  steps. 

FANNIE 

(in  confusion,  extending  the  half-smoked  cig- 
arette) Oh,  quick!  Take  this!  (Milo  starts 
to  take  it,  furtively;  then,  as  if  bethinking  him- 
self, draws  back  and  confronts  her  with  a  grim 
disapprobation.) 

MILO 

Fannie! 

250 


NOT  SMART 


FANNIE 

You  idiot!  (A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door. 
Fannie ,  wasting  no  time  in  further  argument, 
skips  about  in  desperate  search  for  a  place  to 
hide  the  incriminating  object.) 

MILO 

(even  more  sternly)  Frances!  Are  we  to  be 
always  that — that — kind?  (Fannie  faces  him 
defiantly ;  then,  shamed  by  his  superior  sense  of 
honor,  puts  the  cigarette  between  her  lips  and 
puffs  conscientiously.  Knocking  resumes)  Come 
in!  (Enter  Mrs.  Painter.) 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(with  a  moderate  effusiveness — to  Milo)  Oh, 
good  afternoon,  Mr.  Tate.  I  was  just  coming 
up  from  the  beach,  you  know,  and  I  thought 
I'd —  (Catching  sight  of  Fannie  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  she  gasps,  stares  desperately  at  the  floor, 
the  ceiling,  the  desk;  then  sinks  down  in  a  chair) 
— drop  in  I 

MILO  (suavely) 

Terribly  glad.    When's  Mort  coming  home? 

MRS.  PAINTER  (ill  at  ease) 

I— I — he  hasn't  decided.  (In  haste  to  change 
the  subject)  Hasn't  it  been  a  glorious —  (Suf- 
fers another  shock  as  her  eyes,  turning,  come 
to  the  pillar  of  smoke,  and  relapses.) 

FANNIE 

(hastily  coughing  as  she  inhales  by  accident) 
Per-perfectly  glorious,  really.  Yes,  yes — 
When's  Mort  coming  home? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

I — I — he  hasn't — 1     (Looks  from  one  to  the 
251 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

other  with  a  sudden  suspicion;  then  rises  majes- 
tically and  confronts  Fannie  with  an  icy  accusa- 
tion) Mrs.  Tate,  your  husband  asked  me  that 
question  ten  seconds  ago,  and,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, you  heard  me  answer  him.  (Bursting 
into  tears  and  stamping  her  feet)  Oh,  oh,  oh ! 
I  won't  stand  it !  Oh,  you're  so  mean — always 
pecking  at  me — 

MILO  (aghast) 
Pecking? 

FANNIE  (the  same) 
Pecking  at  you? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

Yes,  pecking  at  me !  (She  sinks  down  in  the 
chair,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  gives 
way  to  uncontrollable  grief.  The  others  ex- 
change inquiring  glances,  shrug  their  shoulders, 
and  sign  with  the  helpless  bewilderment  of  the 
falsely  accused.  By  and  by  Mrs.  Painter  begins 
to  speak,  her  cheeks  pressed  in  her  palms,  eyes 
fixed  on  vacancy)  I  suppose  you  might  as  well 
know.  You'll  have  to,  some  time.  Mort — is 
— never — coming: — back ! 

FANNIE 

What! 

MILO 

Old  Mort?  Good  old  Mort?  For  heaven's 
sake,  why  not? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

You  remember  the  maid  we  engaged  down  here 
the  first  of  the  summer — Abbie  Small?  Well, 
she  got  in  trouble.  Oh  yes,  Mort  denied  it — 
and  denied  it  and  denied  it.  He  would,  of 
252 


NOT  SMART 


course.  We  got  her  out  of  the  way  immedi- 
ately; sent  her  up  to  the  Rescued  Magdalene's 
Home  in  the  city.  We  couldn't  do  less.  I  know 
the  place ;  it's  good  and  clean  and  wholesome — 
not  at  all  like  an  institution.  They  have  their 
amusements  and  things.  And — and —  (She 
suffers  a  momentary  relapse  into  tears.  Mllo 
begins  to  pace  the  floor,  wrapped  in  thought. 
She  resumes  gravely)  And  Mort,  when  he 
found  at  last  that  the  wool  would  not  be  pulled 
over  my  eyes,  packed  up  his  things  and  went 
away.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is  best. 
MILO 

(wheeling  on  her)  Best!  You  can  say — Best? 
My  God!  (Noting  her  look  of  alarm,  in  a 
gentler  tone)  You  must  forgive  me,  Mrs. 
Painter.  (Sitting  down  on  the  end  of  the  couch, 
he  goes  on  with  the  persuasive  sweetness  of  the 
evangelist)  You  say  it  is  best,  by  your  lights. 
And  by  my  lights,  I  say  it  is  worse.  Worse, 
because  it  seems  to  me  you  are  missing  the 
fundamental  significance  of  life;  that  you  are 
deliberately  shutting  the  door  on  life ;  that  you 
are  throwing  away  an — experience !  You 
three !  Think  of  it !  How  wonderful  a  thing ! 
Passing  together,  hand  in  hand,  through  the 
unfolding  hours  of  a  miracle !  You  three ! 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(recovering  the  faculty  of  speech  at  last)  Are 
you  crazy?  (Appealing  to  Fannie)  Is — is  the 
man — insane? 

FANNIE 

(with  a  smile,  half  sad,  half  lifted)    No,  Mrs. 
x      253 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

Painter.  It  seems  to  me  he  is  precisely — sane. 
We  have  been  thinking  about  it  a  good  deal — 
Milo  and  I,  and  we — 

MRS.  PAINTER  (rising) 

Mrs.  Tate !  I  can't  say  how  deeply  I  am — I — 
Really,  I  think  I'd  better  be  going.  (She  moves 
away  majestically  toward  the  door.) 

FANNIE 

(intercepting  her)  Now-now !  Don't  take  on 
so,  my  dear.  Pshaw!  You  musn't  go  off  in  a 
huff  like  this — must  she,  Milo?  See  here;  sit 
down  and  we'll  have  a  cup  of  tea.  .  .  .  (Call- 
ing) Mattie!  Mattie! 

MILO 

Yes,  yes — do  please  sit  down.     (Calling)   Mat- 
tie!  Mattie!   (Aside)  Where  is  that  girl?  (To- 
others)    Wait  a  second;  I'll  go  hurry  her  up. 
(Exit.) 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(sobbing  gently  into  her  handkerchief)  But 
my  dear,  my  dear.  You  couldn't  talk  that  way 
— either  of  you — if  you  had  been  through  it 
yourselves — if  you  know — if  you  knew  the  tor- 
ment of  that  day — when  the  girl  came  to  me 
and  told  me  she  wasn't  smart. 

FANNIE  (quizically) 
Not  smart? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

Yes.  That's  the  way  they  put  it  down  here — 
when  they  are: — expecting. 

FANNIE 

How  quaint!     Not  smart.      Fancy.      (Enter 
254 


NOT  SMART 


Milo)  Oh,  Milo,  my  dear,  Mrs.  Painter  has 
just  been  telling  me  the  quaintest  thing. 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(drawing  up  and  recovering  her  dignity)     It  is 
a  thing  I  should  rather  not  discuss  in — in — 
mixed  company.    Especially  with  Mr.  Tate. 
MILO 

Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  Painter.  Don't  let's  quar- 
rel over — over — abstractions.  See  here,  we'll 
have  some  tea  and  we'll  all  feel  better.  .  .  . 
Where's  that  girl?  (Enter  Mattie,  a  dish  in 
one  hand,  dish-towel  in  the  other.  She  stands 
staring  gloomily  at  her  boots.) 

MATTIE 

Yeh? 

FANNIE  (suggestively) 
Ma'am? 

MATTIE 

Mom. 

FANNIE 

That's  better.      Now,  will  you  bring  the  tea 

things — quickly ! 
MATTIE 

Yeh — mom !      (She    remains    standing    there, 

however.) 
FANNIE  (sharply) 

Well?     (Mattie  does  not  answer.    Her  lower 

lip  sags;  her  knees  bend  a  little,  and  the  dish, 

escaping  her  nerveless  fingers,  crashes  on  the 

floor.) 

FANNIE 

Good  heavens !  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Speak ! 

255 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


MATTIE 

(dully,  staring  at  the  floor)     I  ain't  sma't. 
MRS.  PAINTER  (avidly) 
Not  smart? 

FANNIE 

(weakly,  tottering  a  little  and  putting  her  hand 
to  her  throat)  Not  smart? 

MILO 

(protesting  expansively)  Not  smart?  Dear 
creature!  Oh,  you  wonderful,  simple,  primi- 
tive creature!  Smartness!  Pah!  (Turning 
on  the  others  savagely)  Don't  sit  there  looking 
at  me  so — aghast — as  if  I  were  uttering  here- 
sies. Smart?  We  are  smart — you — and  you 
— and  I.  And  look  at  us.  (Turning  back  to 
Mattie)  No,  no,  my  dear  girl.  You  are  not 
smart,  and  heaven  send  you  may  never  come  to 
be  smart — you,  hiding  in  your  soul  something 
a  thousand  times  more  precious  than  smartness, 
an  element  of  wisdom — 

FANNIE 
Milo! 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(almost  screaming)  It  isn't  that,  you  fool !  It 
isn't  that  she  means  by  "not  smart."  Don't  you 
know  what  it  means  down  here?  Why — it 
means  that  one  is  in  a  delicate — 

MILO 

Delicate?  You  say  "delicate!"  And  I  say, 
don't  talk  to  me  of  delicacy!  No,  no;  look  at 
me  as  hard  as  you  want  to;  there's  something 
more  priceless  in  the  world  than  delicacy! 
We're  immersed  in  it.  Yes,  I'll  say  it — im- 

256 


NOT  SMART 


mersed — all  the  vile  little  soul-stifling  inhibi- 
tions of  soap  and  tooth-brush,  Chinese  potteries. 
I  see  that  I  shock  you.  Well,  I  am  willing  to 
shock  you — you,  Mrs.  Painter,  and  you,  my 
dear  Frances.  But  I  tell  you  that  if  this  girl 
here — this  splendid,  deep-bosomed,  ox-eyed 
earth-woman,  is  not  delicate,  then  as  for 
me — 

MRS.  PAINTER  (desperately) 

I  didn't  say  "not  delicate!"  I  said  in  a  deli- 
cate— 

MILO 

(putting  his  hand  to  his  brow  with  a  sudden  new 
suspicion  of  light — very  weakly)  In  a  delicate 
— what? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

CONDITION! 

MILO 

(sitting  down  abruptly  on  the  couch  and  staring 
into  vacancy — after  a  pause — in  a  wondering 
whisper)  Condition  ?  (Tableau — Mat- 
tie  staring  at  her  boots;  the  two  women  staring 
at  Milo;  Milo  staring  at  nothing.  By  and  by 
he  turns  his  head,  and  starts  violently  as  he 
meets  the  accusing  eyes)  What  are  you  look- 
ing at  me  for?  (Seized  by  a  sudden  panic,  he 
shakes  wild  hands  at  them)  Stop  looking  at, 
me !  Stop  it,  I  say !  Stop  looking  at  me !  Stop 
— stop — stop!  The — idea! 

FANNIE 

Milo!    Oh— Milo— Milo! 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(with  a  stately  sweep  to  the  door)  I  am  afraid 

257 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

I  shall  have  to  say — Good  evening!  (Exit  in 
a  blaze  of  glory.) 

FANNIE 

(with  great  difficulty — to  Mattie)  You  may 
leave  the  room.  (Exit  Mattie,  her  eyes  still 
on  the  floor.  Milo  gazes  after  her,  blank  and 
helpless.  As  the  door  closes,  Fannie  sinks  on 
her  knees  beside  the  desk,  and  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  shakes  with  the  tumult  of  her  woe, 
sobbing  a  muffled  "Milo,  Milo"  from  time  to 
time.  Milo  paces  back  and  forth  rapidly.) 

MILO 

Frances !  Ten  minutes  ago  I  would  have  called 
the  man  a  liar  who  told  me  that  you,  my  wife, 
had  such  a  low — suspicious — mind.  Do  you 
hear  me?  Good  God,  Fannie!  (Receiving  no 
reply,  he  subsides  on  the  couch  and  mops  his 
face.  After  a  moment  he  resumes  in  a  harassed 
soliloquy)  The  world  is  full  of  low  minds,  I 
suppose — eternally  ready  to  suspect  the  worst 
— licking  their  lickerish  lips  for  a  chance  at  a 
man's  good  name.  Pah!  (He^groans)  .  .  . 
Of  course,  the  girl  must  be  gotten  away  from 
here  immediately.  Fannie!  (Still  hearing  no 
answer,  he  jumps  up  and  moves  toward  her) 
See  here !  Pull  yourself  together.  There  are 
arrangements  to  make.  This  poor  creature 
can't  be  left  here  to  face  the  sneers  of  these 
damned,  narrow-souled  provincials.  She  is,  in 
a  sense,  a — a — dependent  of  ours.  It  seems 
to  me  we  can't  do  less  than  to  send  her  away  to 
some  place  where  she  will  be  looked  after — 
cared  for,  understood — in  the  city — Fanny,  will 

258 


NOT  SMART 


you  listen  to  me?  (Grasping  her  shoulder,  not 
too  gently,  he  tries  to  uncover  her  face.  She  un- 
covers it  herself.) 

FANNIE 

(with  a  suppressed  fury)     Please  don't  touch 
me! 
MILO  (snapping) 

Stop  it !   Stop  it,  I  say ! 

FANNIE 

Don't — touch — me ! 

MILO 

(retreating  weakly)  But — but  I  keep  telling 
you — 

FANNIE 

Please  don't  keep  telling  me  anything.     I  can't 
comprehend  anything  now.     My  brain  won't 
work.     I  think  I — I  am  going  crazy.      (She 
shivers.) 
MILO  (desperately) 

But  I  tell  you — i  t — w  a  s  n  '  t — M  E  ! 

FANNIE 

(her  shoulders  dropping  hopelessly)     Denials ! 
Denials !    I  think  I  might  have  been  spared  this. 
MILO 

But  it  WASN'T,  you  know ! 

FANNIE  (drearily) 

If  you  must  make  a  brute  of  yourself,  you  might 
have  been  a  gazelle — not  a  jackal.  (Milo 
stares  at  her  a  moment,  fascinated;  then  takes 
a  dazed  turn  about  the  room.  Somewhere  in 
the  circuit  he  discovers  a  little  spirit  of  his  own.) 

MILO 

But  if  it  had  been,  Fannie — 
259 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 


FANNIE 

(in  a  sarcastic  echo)     If  it  had  been- — 
MILO 

You  wouldn't  mind,  would  you  ? 

FANNIE 

(shrinking  back  a  step,  as  before  an  unfair 
blow)  M-m-mind  ?  (And  then  with  a  terrible 
gaiety)  Mind?  I?  Ha-ha-ha-ha — 

MILO  (relieved) 

Ah,  that's  better.  That's  more  like  my  girl.  I 
knew  you  wouldn't — even  if  it — if  it — had 
been. 

FANNIE 

Ha-ha-ha-ha — 
MILO 

That's  right.  And  now  let's  think.  Have  we 
got  a  time-table  in  the  house,  with  connections  ? 
And,  oh  yes,  about  that  address!  The  what- 
you-may-call-it  Magdalenes'  Home.  We  must 
get  it  from  Mrs.  Painter.  The  girl  mustn't 
stay  here  a  moment  more  than  is  absolutely 
necessary. 

FANNIE 

(sitting  down)     What  are  you  talking  about? 

MILO 

That  place  in  the  city.    Mrs.  Painter  thinks  well 

of  it. 
FANNIE 

What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it? 
MILO  (blankly) 

Why — why — 
FANNIE 

Of  course,  the  young  woman  is  to  remain  with  us. 

260 


NOT  SMART 


MILO 

WHAT  ! 

FANNIE  (blandly) 

Naturally.     Why,  Milo,  how  queer  you  talk! 

We — you  and  I — are  not  going  to  miss  the 

fundamental  significance  of  life,  are  we?  We're 

not  deliberately  going  to  shut  the  door  on  life  ? 

We  three?    This  wonderful  thing? 
MILO  (terribly) 

I  must  say,  my  dear  girl,  this  is  a  poor  time  for 

facetiousness. 
FANNIE  (untouched) 

We  three!     Passing  together,  hand  in  hand, 

through  the  unfolding  hours  of  a  miracle — 
MILO  (ponderously) 

Frances,  you  are  very  unkind.    You  will  never 

— understand  me. 

FANNIE 

Understand  you? 
MILO 

Not  in  the  deeper  sense.  You  are  a  woman, 
after  all.  You  still  cling  pathetically  to  the 
grammar-school  notion  that  two  and  two  makes 
four. 

FANNIE  (unmoved) 

Ah!  And  that  theories  are  to  be  put  in  prac- 
tice at  home? 

MILO  (haggardly) 

Theories!  My  God!  Theories!  Ideals! 
Dreams !  Ah,  if  one  could  but  afford  to  dream ! 
(With  a  heavy  wistfulness)  But  that  is  for 
the  angels, 'and  the  young.  Happy  youth,  un- 
encumbered, foot-free — 
261 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

FANNIE 

All  of  which  is  to  say — 

MILO 

Hang  take  it  all.  My  affairs  are  in  a  delicate 
condition — (Flinches  at  the  word)  — er — it's  a 
confounded  precarious  period  in  my  career,  my 
dear  girl.  Another  year,  who  knows,  and  I 
may  arrive — if  nothing  happens.  After  all,  we 
owe  a  little  something  to  my  career. 

FANNIE 

Ah!   Your  career! 

MILO 

And  to  our  own  folks — yours  and  mine.  And 
— and — and  to  your  good — name. 

FANNIE 

Quite  so — my  good  name.  You  are  beginning 
to  think  even  of  that. 

MILO 

(in  desperation)  But  I  keep  telling  you —  (A 
loud  knock  is  heard  at  the  outer  door.  Milo, 
stepping  to  the  window,  cranes  out,  then,  with  a 
look  of  consternation,  runs  and  sets  his  back 
against  the  door)  It's  that  Painter  woman. 
What  are  we  going  to  do? 

FANNIE 

Do?  What  should  we  do,  when  everything  is 
so  sweet  and  natural? 

MILO 

Fannie,  are  you  insane? 
FANNIE 

No,  I  am  precisely — sane.  (Another  knock) 
Let  her  in,  please. 

262 


NOT  SMART 


MILO 

(in  a  pleading  whisper)  Fannie !  Fannie  I  (A 
louder  knock.) 

FANNIE  (calling) 

Come  in!  (The  door  opens  after  a  brief  strug- 
gle; Milo  accepts  sanctuary  in  its  l%e,  still  vis- 
ible to  the  audience,  but  screened  from  Mrs. 
Painter,  who  enters,  and  after  a  suspicious 
glance  at  the  panels,  plops  down  in  a  chair  and 
folds  her  hands.) 

MRS.    PAINTER 

Well,  here  I  am.  I  started  to  go  home,  and 
then  I  just  couldn't.  When  there's  anyone  in 
trouble — when  there's  a  chance  of  anyone's 
needing  help — well,  that's  the  way  I  am,  Mrs. 
Tate.  I  said  to  myself:  now,  if  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do — any  arrangements  I  can  help 
them  make — to  get  that  wretched  girl  out  of 
the  way  before  the  town  is  by  the  ears.  Poor 
Mr.  Tate,  I  said  to  myself — when  all  these 
rough  fishermen  learn  the  news — Oh  my  dear 
Mrs.  Tate,  you  don't  know  them !  They're  ig- 
norant and  uncouth,  and  you  wouldn't  think 
they  had  a  spark  of  sentiment  or  honor  in  them ; 
but  when  anyone  gets  one  of  their  women-folks 
in  trouble — especially  an  outsider,  like  Mr. 
Tate — well,  I  said  to  myself,  weak  as  I  am,  if 
there's  to  be  any  harm  done — any  violence — 
MILO 

(who  has  been  visibly  wilting  behind  the  door, 
bursts  forth  with  an  attempt  at  bravado) 
Harm?  Violence?  What  do  you  mean?  See 
here !  Do  you  imagine  for  one  instant  that  any 
263 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

man — fisherman  or  no  fisherman — can  come 
around  here  bulldozing  me — a  perfectly  inno- 
cent bystander?  Have  I  no  protection  under 
the  Constitution  of  this  country?  /  think  I 
have.  (Turning  on  his  heel  with  a  hollow 
majesty,  he  paces  away  from  them — falters — 
speaks  in  a  weaker  voice)  But  I'm  forgetting 
that  poor  tragic  creature.  She  can't  be  left  here 
to  face  the  sneering  rabble.  (Turning  to  the 
others,  he  speaks  in  the  curt,  incisive  accents  of 
a  man-of-action,  a  trifle  overdone)  I'll  get  a 
rig.  I'll  drive  her  over  to  the  junction — my- 
self. I'll  take  her  up  to  the  city — myself.  I'll 
make  arrangements  at  the — at  the —  Mrs. 
Painter,  where  was  that  place  ? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(in  attitude  of  deep  concentration)     Let  me 

think.    Let  me  think. 
MILO  (wildly) 

For  heaven's  sake,  don't  you  remember? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

Let  me  think,  I  tell  you.  Please,  please,  don't 
keep  hopping  about  that  way  or  I'll  never  re- 
member. Let  me  think — was  it  Ninety-third 
Street  or  was  it  Thirty-ninth  Street — or  was  it 
Ninety-three  some  other  street — or  Thirty- 
nine — 

MILO 

But  my  dear  woman! 

FANNIE 

(who  has  been  watching  them  with  an  icy  scorn 
— tapping  the  floor  with  one  foot,  but  other- 
wise calm)     I  think  you  are  both  of  you  mak- 
264 


NOT  SMART 


ing  rather — rather  a  spectacle  of  yourselves. 
You  seem  to  overlook  the  fact  that  all  this  fuss 
and  flurry  is  quite  unnecessary — quite  ! 

MILO 

Unnecessary !  (Dragging  out  his  watch)  Good 
Lord,  woman,  look  at  the  time ! 

MRS.    PAINTER 

And  this  was  such  a  good  place — not  at  all  like 
an  institution.  They  have  their  amusements 
and  things.  If  a  girl  has  to  go  away — 

FANNIE 

If  she  has  to  go  away — quite  so.  I  agree  with 
you.  But  you  must  remember  that  this  is  quite 
another  case,  for  the  girl  is  not  going  away. 
She  is  remaining  here — quietly — with  us. 

MILO 

(going  desperately  to  pieces)  Frances,  I  swear 
by — by — I  swear  if  you  don't  drop  that  pose 
and  come  to  your  senses — 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(with  an  air  of  one  remembering — a  sudden 
calmness — a  cool,  Cheshire  smile)  Why — of 
course!  (To  Fannie)  Why,  my  dear,  of  course! 
(To  Milo)  Oh,  Mr.  Tate,  how  stupid  of  me 
— knowing  your  principles !  I  was — in  the  ex- 
citement and  the — ah — danger  of  the  moment 
—I  was  just  being  hopelessly  middle-class. 
Why,  of  course! 

MILO 

(eyeing  them  with  an  elemental  ferocity)     All 
right !    All  right !     Seeing  that  I  can 
no  ordinary  human  assistance  from  eith< 
you,  I — /  wash  my  hands  of  you!    Only  please 

265 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

keep  out  of  my  way !  (Becoming  ecstatically 
busy — dragging  a  hand-bag  from  under  the 
couch — hopping  about  and  stuffing  into  it  the 
most  absurd  and  unrelated  objects — draperies, 
match-safe,  etc.)  Please,  I  say,  keep  out  of  my 
way.  (Looks  at  watch)  Mattie!  Mattie! 
Where  is  that  girl?  Good  Lord,  she'll  have 
no  time  to  pack  her  things.  And — and  they 
might  be  here  any  minute ! 

FANNIE 

Who  might  be  here? 
MILO 

Please  don't  speak  to  me.  (Calling)  Mattie  1 
For  God's  sake,  girl,  are  you  deaf?  Mattie! 
(Enter  Mattie.) 

MATTIE 

(toward  Fannie)    Yeh — mom? 
MILO 

Not  her — me!  Mattie,  see  here,  hurry!  Don't 
keep  standing  there  like  a  chump.  Get  your 
things  together — just  what  you  need.  Throw 
them  together,  girl! 

MATTIE  (bewildered) 

(glancing  uneasily  at  Fannie)    Huh — mom? 

FANNIE 

You  mustn't  take  any  notice  of  him,  Mattie. 
He's— 

MILO 

Frances,  oblige  me  by  keeping  quiet.   (To  Mat- 
tie)     Now  hurry!     You're  going  away.     I'm 
going  to  take  you  to  the  city.     We'll  drive  to 
— />r  of     on,  understand?     Junction!     Drive! 
266 


NOT  SMART 


City!  Good  God,  what  a  bone-head!  Going 
to  city  I  Get  that?  It's  a  nice  place — not  at  all 
like  an  institutions—they  have  their  amuse- 
ments and  things.  .  .  .  City!  Understand? 

MATTIE 

(still  to  Fannie)     Huh — mom? 

FANNIE 

I  told  you  not  to  pay  any  attention  to  him.  He's 
not  quite  himself.  Of  course  you're  not  going 
to  the  city  at  all.  You're  going  to  remain  right 
here  with  us — right  here  in  the  house  with  us 
— we  three — very  quietly — until — until — 

MRS.    PAINTER 

Until  your — your — you  know — 

FANNIE 

Is — is — you  know — 

MRS.    PAINTER 

— Born. 

MILO 

Damn  it,  she  can't!  I  say  she  can't.  (To  Mat- 
tie)  Tell  them  you  can't! 

MATTIE 

No — mom.       I    can't.       My — my    old    man 
wouldn't  like  it,  mom. 
FANNIE 

Your  father  wouldn't  like  it? 

MATTIE 

No — mom.  That's  right;  none  of  'em  wouldn't 
like  it,  mom. 
MILO  (aghast) 

Do  they — Good  God — they  don't  know,  do 
they? 

267 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

MATTIE 

(sheepishly,  eyes  on  floor)  Yep — mom.  I — 
told  'em  to-day.  An'  my  old  man — 

MILO 

Not  another  word.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
stand  there  wasting  time !  Go !  Get  a  hat  on ! 
What  the  devil  did  you  have  to  tell  them  for? 
They  might  be  here  any  minute  now — the  whole 
pack  of  them.  Hush!  My  God,  what's  that? 
(Grasps  Mattie  fiercely  by  shoulder  and  con- 
fronts her  accusingly)  GIRL! 

MATTIE 

I — I  guess  mebby  that's  my  old  man. 
MILO  (groans) 

(then  straightens  up  and  looks  about  him.  Steps 
hastily  to  window  and  peeps  out)  No  one  on 
this  side — yet. 

MATTIE 

(to  Fannie)    Should  I  leave  'im  in,  mom? 
MILO 

(darting  toward  her  and  grasping  her  roughly 
by  the  wrist)  You  fool !  Come !  We'll  make 
a  run  for  it  the  front  way.  Come  along,  I  say ! 
(Starts  to  drag  her  by  main  force  toward  the 
front  door.  Mattie,  aroused  from  her  native 
coma  by  his  violence  and  the  savage  expression 
on  his  face,  struggles  frantically,  appealing  to 
Fannie.) 

MATTIE 

Oh,  no,  mom — no,  mom — no,  mom —  (As 
Milo,  dragging  her,  puts  out  his  hand  to  open 
the  front  door,  terror  overcomes  her  and  she 
begins  to  shriek  incoherently.  From  of -stage — 
268 


NOT  SMART 


kitchen-way — comes  the  sound  of  a  door  broken 
in  and  deep  masculine  rumblings.  Enter  Mr. 
Snow,  a  Fisherman,  disheveled,  wild-eyed,  car- 
rying a  trawl-tub  and  armed  with  a  gaf.  At 
sight  of  tableau  by  door  he  draws  up  in  the 
dramatic  attitude  of  a  tiger  about  to  spring.) 

SNOW 

Leave  be  with  your  hands  there ! 

MILO 

(letting  Mattie  go  and  sinking  back  against  the 
wall,  staring  with  an  appealing  fascination  at 
the  intrduer— weakly)  It  wasn't  me — I  swear 
— I  give  you  my  word — it  wasn't  me. 

SNOW 

Wasn't  you?  You  stand  there  and  tell  me  it 
wasn't  you  ?  And  me  seeing  you  with  my  very 
eyes?  Wasn't  you,  eh?  Mattie,  come  here! 
(Mattie  runs  and  takes  exhausted  shelter  be- 
side him.) 
MILO  (chattering) 

It  wasn't  me.  It  wasn't — it  wasn't.  Honestly, 
Mr.— Mr.— 

SNOW 

Stow  it.  I  seen  you ;  so  stow  it  before  I  heave 
this  tub  at  your  head.  I  don't  care  who  you 
are ;  I  know  what  you  done ;  I  seen  you  doing  it, 
and  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  lesson  to  chaw  on — 
I'll  be  dumned  if  I  ain't.  (Advances  men- 
acingly.) 
MILO  (screeching) 

I  didn't !  Don't  you  touch  an  innocent  man.  It 
was  someone  else  did  it — I  swear  by  my  honor. 
Somebody  else  did  it ! 

269 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

SNOW 

(showing  first  signs  of  puzzlement)   Somebody 

else  done — what? 
MILO 

IT! 

SNOW 

It — what? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

He  means — got  her  in — in — trouble. 
SNOW 

In  trouble!    Her?    HIM?    SAY ! 

FANNIE 

(breathlessly — plucking   at   her   skirts)      You 
didn't  know? 

MRS.    PAINTER 

— That  your  daughter  was — 
SNOW 

My  daughter? 

FANNIE 

But  she  said  you  were — 

MRS.    PAINTER 

— You  were  her — old  man. 

SNOW 

Old  man?    Of  course  I'm  her  old  man.    And 
she's  my  old  woman. 

FANNIE 

Do  you  mean  she  is  your — 

MRS.    PAINTER 

— Your — your — 

MILO 

(uncovering,     dazed  —  transfigured    eyes)  — 
Wife? 

270 


NOT  SMART 


SNOW 

Well,  for  Gripe's  sake  now — what  did  you 
think? 

MILO 

(tottering  to  couch  and  sinking  down)  We — 
we  simply  didn't — think. 

FANNIE 

We  didn't  know  she  was — 

MRS.    PAINTER 

Married. 

FANNIE 

We  all  want  to  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  Mr. — 
Mr.— 

MILO 

(weakly — mopping  his  brow)  Ten  thousand! 
Ten  thousand ! 

SNOW 

Well,  I  don't  know.  Don't  seem  to  understand. 
But  I  just  come  up  here  to  tell  you  I  thought 
best  the  woman  should  quit  work  now.  She 
ain't  smart,  you  know — 

MILO 

Yes,  yes;  that's  all  right.  We  understand,  old 
chap.  Yes,  indeed.  Good — good-bye. 

SNOW 

Good-day  to  you  all.  .  .  .  Tell  'em  good- 
day,  Mattie,  girl. 

MATTIE 

Good-day  to  you — mom.  (Exeunt — somehow 
or  other.  For  a  time  deep  silence  reigns.  Milo, 
relapsed  on  the  couch,  veils  his  face  with  a  hand- 
kerchief. Mrs.  Painter  sits  down  in  a  chair 
271 


THE  PROVINCETOWN  PLAYS 

very  quietly,  takes  her  cheeks  between  her 
hands,  and  stares  at  nothing.  After  a  moment 
Milo  summons  strength  to  arise  and  stand  mid- 
stage  in  an  attitude  convenient  for  his  wife  to 
cast  her  arms  about  him.) 

FANNIE 

Milo!  Milo!  I've  been  such  a  mean,  shallow 
little  ninny.  Oh,  I  can  never,  never,  never  for- 
give myself. 

MRS.    PAINTER 

(to  vacancy)    I  wonder — I  wonder — 

FANNIE 

Milo,  Milo  darling,  look  at  me.  I'll  never 
doubt  you  again  as  long  as  I  live. 

MRS.    PAINTER 

I  remember  now;  it  was  39  East  Ninety — 
[CURTAIN] 


272 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


NOV  27  77  ,.: 

l5^7Rttr 

FEB23!80 

MAR  2  5  1980  REC'D 

MAY    5  '82 

MAY    61982 


MAR  3  0  1984  «« 

OCT  27  '87      N 

Om-12,'70(P1251s8)2373-3A,l 


DEC151987REC'D 


P75 


Toe 00205  £ 


Ill 


